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1887 

MAIN 


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BOSTON: 
R  O  B  E.R  T  S     B  R  O  T  H  E  R  S'. 

1887. 


iliOl 


I 


THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE. 


*'  Do  you  know  now  when  I  am  wheelingf  about  in  my  chair,  and  playing  with  him  and  he  looks 
at  me  wherever  I  go  ;  sometimes  for  a  l)it  I  forget  about  the  King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry  for  me. 
Under  the  table  was  the  only  place  where  I  could  get  out  of  the  sit'lit  of  his  eves."  —  Frontisfiiece. 


THE 


Story  of  a  Short  Life 


BY 


JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING, 

AUTHOR  OF  '-JACKANAPES,"  "DADDY  DARWIN'S  DOVECOT,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY   GORDON  BROWNE. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1887. 


"  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  tliinkto  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  bhnd  Fury  with  the  abhored  shears 
And  slits  the  thin  spun  life,  — '  But  not  the  praise.'  " 

Miltcm. 

"  It  is  a  calumny  on  men  to  say  that  they  are  roused  to  heroic  action  by  ease, 
hope  of  pleasure,  recompense,  —  sugar-plums  of  any  kind  in  this  world  or  the 
next!  In  the  meanest  mortal  there  lies  something  nobler.  .  .  .  Difficulty,  abne- 
gation, martyrdom,  death  are  the  albtrejitenis  that  act  on  the  heart  of  man. 
Kindle  the  inner  genial  life  of  him,  you  have  a  flame  that  burns  up  all  lower 
considerations.  .  . .  Not  by  flattering  our  appetites;  no,  by  awakening  the  Heroic 
that  slumbers  in  every  heart."  —  Carlyle. 


Snibtfsitii  J5rtss : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


CHAPTER   I. 


"  Arma  virumque  cano."  —  Aineid.  ~.  y^ 

rK.  ^  I 

Man  —  and  the  horseradish  —  are  most  biting  when  grated."  —  P^     ' 

Jean  Paid  Richter.  ,--  - 


OST  annoy- 
i  n  g  I  "  said 
the  Master  of 
the  House. 
His  thick  eye- 
brows were 
puckered  just 
then  with  the 
vexation  of 
his  thoughts; 
but  the  hues 
of  annoyance 
on  his  fore- 
head were  to 
some  extent 
fixed  lines. 
They  helped 
to  make  him 
look  older 
than  his  age 
— -  he  was  not 
forty    —    and 

they  gathered  into  a  fierce  frown  as  his   elbow  was 

softly  touched  by  his  little  son. 


•  7 


\^ 


*> 


46Jeos 


6        DULCE   ET   DECORUM   EST   PRO    PATRIA    MORI. 

The  child  was  defiantly  like  his  father,  even  to  a 
knitted  brow,  for  his  whole  face  was  crumpled  with 
the  vigor  of  some  resolve  which  he  found  it  hard 
to  keep,  and  which  was  symbolized  by  his  holding 
the  little  red  tip  of  his  tongue  betwixt  finger  and 
thumb. 

"  Put  your  hands  down,  Leonard  !  Put  your  tongue 
in,  sir!  What  are  you  after?  What  do  you  want? 
What  are  you  doing  here?  Be  off  to  the  nursery, 
and  tell  Jemima  to  keep  you  there.  Your  mother 
and  I  are  busy." 

Far  behind  the  boy,  on  the  wall,  hung  the  portrait 
of  one  of  his  ancestors  —  a  youth  of  sixteen.  The 
painting  was  by  Vandyck,  and  it  was  the  most  valu- 
able of  the  many  valuable  things  that  strewed  and 
decorated  the  room.  A  very  perfect  example  of  the 
great  master's  work,  and  uninjured  by  Time.  The 
young  Cavalier's  face  was  more  interesting  than  hand- 
some, but  so  eager  and  refined  that,  set  oft'  as  it  was 
by  pale-hued  satin  and  falling  hair,  he  might  have 
been  called  effeminate,  if  his  brief  life,  which  ended 
on  the  field  of  Naseby,  had  not  done  more  than 
common  to  prove  his  manhood.  A  coat-of-arms, 
blazoned  in  the  corner  of  the  painting,  had  some  ap- 
pearance of  having  been  added  later.  Below  this 
was  rudely  inscribed,  in  yellow  paint,  the  motto 
which  also  decorated  the  elaborate  stone  mantlepiece 
opposite  —  LcsUis  sorte  viea. 

Leonard  w^as  very  fond  of  that  picture.  It  was 
known  to  his  childish  affections  as  "  Uncle  Rupert." 


DULCE    ET   DECORUM    EST   PRO    PATRIA   MORI.        7 

He  constantly  wished  that  he  could  get  into  the  frame 
and  play  with  the  dog  —  the  dog  with  the  upturned 
face  and  melancholy  eyes,  and  odd  resemblance  to  a 
long-haired  Cavalier  —  on  whose  faithful  head  Uncle 
Rupert's  slender  fingers  perpetually  reposed. 

Though  not  able  to  play  with  the  dog,  Leonard  did 
play  with  Uncle  Rupert  —  the  game  of  trying  to  get 
out  of  the  reach  of  his  eyes. 

"I  play  '  Puss-in-the-corner '  with  him,"  the  child 
was  wont  to  explain;  "  but  whichever  corner  I  get 
into,  his  eyes  come  after  me.  The  dog  looks  at 
Uncle  Rupert  always,  and  Uncle  Rupert  always  looks 
at  me." 

.  .  .  .  "  To  see  if  you  are  growing  up  a  good  boy 
and  a  gallant  young  gentleman,  such  as  he  was." 
So  Leonard's  parents  and  guardians  explained  the 
matter  to  him,  and  he  devoutedly  believed  them. 

Many  an  older  and  less  credulous  spectator  stood 
in  the  light  of  those  painted  eyes,  and  acknowledged 
their  spell.  Very  marvellous  was  the  cunning  which, 
by  dabs  and  streaks  of  color,  had  kept  the  spirit  of 
this  long  dead  youth  to  gaze  at  his  descendants  from 
a  sheet  of  canvas  and  stir  the  sympathy  of  strangers, 
parted  by  more  than  two  centuries  from  his  sorrows, 
with  the  mock  melancholy  of  painted  tears.  For 
whether  the  painter  had  just  overdone  some  trick  of 
representing  their  liquidness,  or  whether  the  boy's 
eyes  had  brimmed  over  as  he  was  standing  for  his 
portrait  (his  father  and  elder  brother  had  died  in  the 
civil  war  before  him),  there  remains  no  tradition   to 


8  WORD   AND    HONOR. 

tell.     But  Vandyck  never  painted  a  portrait  fuller  of 
sad  dignity,  even  in  those  troubled  times. 

Happily  for  his  elders,  Leonard  invented  for  him- 
self a  reason  for  the  obvious  tears. 

"  I  believe  Uncle  Rupert  knew  that  they  were  going 
to  chop  the  poor  king  's  head  off,  and  that 's  why  he 
looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry." 

It  was  partly  because  the  child  himself  looked  as  if 
he  were  going  to  cry  —  and  that  not  fractiously,  but 
despite  a  struggle  with  himself — that,  as  he  stood 
before  the  Master  of  the  House,  he  might  have  been 
that  other  master  of  the  same  house  come  to  life 
again  at  six  years  of  age.  His  long,  fair  hair,  the 
pliable,  nervous  fingers,  which  he  had  put  down  as  he 
was  bid,  the  strenuous  tension  of  his  little  figure  un- 
der a  sense  of  injustice,  and,  above  all,  his  beautiful 
eyes,  in  which  the  tears  now  brimmed  over  the  eye- 
lashes as  the  waters  of  a  lake  well  up  through  the 
reeds  that  fringe  its  banks.  He  was  very  very  like 
Uncle  Rupert  when  he  turned  those  eyes  on  his 
mother  in  mute  reproach. 

Lady  Jane  came  to  his  defence. 

"  I  think  Leonard  meant  to  be  good.  I  made  him 
promise  me  to  try  and  cure  himself  of  the  habit 
of  speaking  to  you  when  you  are  speaking  to  some 
one  else.  But,  dear  Leonard "  (and  she  took  the 
hand  that  had  touched  his  father's  elbow),  "  I  don't 
think  you  were  quite  on  honor  when  you  inter- 
rupted Father  with  this  hand,  though  you  were  hold- 
ing your  tongue  with  the  other.     That   is   what  wc 


WORD   AND    HONOR.  9 

call  keeping  a  promise  to  the  ear  and  breaking  it  to 
the  sense." 

All  the  Cavalier  dignity  came  unstarched  in  Leon- 
ard's figure.  With  a  red  face,  he  answered  bluntly, 
"  I  'm  very  sorry.     I  meant  to  keep  my  promise." 

"  Next  time  keep  it  well,  as  a  gentleman  should. 
Now,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  Pencil  and  paper,  please." 

"There  they  are.  Take  them  to  the  nursery,  as 
Father  told  you." 

Leonard  looked  at  his  father.  He  had  not  been 
spoilt  for  six  years  by  an  irritable  and  indulgent  par- 
ent without  learning  those  arts  of  diplomacy  in  which 
children  quickly  become  experts. 

"  Oh,  he  can  stay,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House, 
"  and  he  may  say  a  word  now  and  then,  if  he  does  n't 
talk  too  much.  Boys  can't  sit  mumchance  always  — 
can  they,  Len?  There;  kiss  your  poor  old  father, 
and  get  away,  and  keep  quiet." 

Lady  Jane  made  one  of  many  fruitless  efforts  on 
behalf  of  discipline. 

"  I  think,  dear,  as  you  told  him  to  go,  he  had  better 
go  now." 

"  He  will  go,  pretty  sharp,  if  he  is  n't  good.  Now, 
for  pity's  sake,  let 's  talk  out  this  affair,  and  let  me  get 
back  to  my  work." 

"  Have  you  been  writing  poetry  this  morning. 
Father  dear?"  Leonard  inquired,  urbanely. 

He  was  now  lolling  against  a  writing-table  of  the 
first   empire,  where    sheets  of  paper   lay  like   fallen 


10  CROSS    QUESTIONS 

leaves  among  Japanese  bronzes,  old  and  elaborate 
candlesticks,  grotesque  letter-clips  and  paper-weights, 
quaint  pottery,  big  seals,  and  spring  flowers  in  slender 
Venetian  glasses  of  many  colors. 

"  I  wrote  three  lines,  and  was  interrupted  four 
times,"  replied  his  sire,  with  bitter  brevity. 

"  I  think  ril  write  some  poetry.  I  don't  mind  be- 
ing interrupted.     May  I  have  your  ink?" 

"No,  you  may  not!''  roared  the  Master  of  the 
House  and  of  the  inkpot  of  priceless  china 
which  Leonard  had  seized.  "  Now,  be  off  to  the 
nursery !" 

"  I  won't  touch  anything.  I  am  going  to  draw  out 
of  the  window,"  said  Leonard,  calmly. 

He  had  practised  the  art  of  being  troublesome  to 
the  verge  of  expulsion  ever  since  he  had  had  a  whim 
of  his  own,  and  as  skilfully  as  he  played  other  games. 
He  was  seated  among  the  cushions  of  the  oriel  win- 
dow-seat (colored  rays  from  coats-of-arms  in  the 
upper  panes  falling  on  his  fair  hair  with  a  fanciful 
effect  of  canonizing  him  for  his  sudden  goodness) 
almost  before  his  father  could  reply. 

"  I  advise  you  to  stay  there,  and  to  keep  quiet." 
Lady  Jane  took  up  the  broken  thread  of  conversation 
in  despair, 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him?  " 

"  Yes  ;  years  ago." 

"  You  know  I  never  saw  either.  Your  sister  was 
much  older  than  you  ;   was  n't  she?  " 

"  The  shadows  move  so  on  the  grass,  and  the  elms 


AND   CROOKED   ANSWERS.  II 

have  so  many  branches,  I  think  I  shall  turn  ronnd  and 
drazv  tJie  fireplace^'  innrinnrcd  Leonard. 

"  Ten  years.  You  may  be  sure,  if  I  had  been 
grown  up  I  should  never  have  allowed  the  marriage. 
I  cannot  think  what  possessed  my  father  — " 

''  I  am  doing  the  hiscription!  I  can  print  Old  Eng- 
lish. What  does  L.  diphthong  ^.  T.  U.  S.  mean?'' 
said  Leonard. 

"  It  means  joyfnl,  contented,  happy.  —  I  was  at  Eton 
at  the  time.     Disastrous  ill-luck  !  " 

"  Are  there  any  children?" 

"  One  son.  And  to  crown  all,  Jiis  regiment  is  at 
Asholt.     Nice  family  party  !  " 

"  A  young  man  !      Has  he  been  well  brought  up?  '' 

"  What  does  —  " 

"  Will  yon  Jiold  yonr  tongue,  Leonard?  —  Is  he 
likely  to  have  been  well  brought  up?  However,  he's 
'  in  the  Service,'  as  they  say.  I  wish  it  did  n't  make 
one  think  of  flunkies,  what  with  the  word  service, 
and  the  liveries  (I  mean  uniforms),  and  the  legs,  and 
shoulders,  and  swagger,  and  tag-rags,  and  epaulettes, 
and  the  fatiguing  alertness  and  attentiveness  of  *  men 
in  the  Service.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  spoke  with  the  pettish 
accent  of  one  who  says  what  he  does  not  mean, 
partly  for  lack  of  something  better  to  do,  and  partly 
to  avenge  some  inward  vexation  upon  his  hearers. 
He  lounged  languidly  on  a  couch,  but  Lady  Jane  sat 
upright,  and  her  eyes  gave  an  unwonted  flash.  She 
came  of  an  ancient  Scottish  race,  that  had  shed  its 


12  CROSS   QUESTIONS,    ETC. 

blood  like  water  on  many  a  battle-field,  generations 
before  the  family  of  her  English  husband  had  become 
favorites  at  the  Court  of  the  Tudors. 

"  I  have  so  many  military  belongings,  both  in  the 
past  and  the  present,  that  I  have  a  respect  for  the 
Service  —  " 

He  got  up,  and  patted  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  child.  Et  ego  —  "  and  he 
looked  at  Uncle  Rupert,  who  looked  sadly  back 
again:  "but  you  mus.t  make  allowances  for  me. 
Asholt  Camp  has  been  a  thorn  in  my  side  from 
the  first.  And  now  to  have  the  barrack-master,  and 
the  youngest  subaltern  of  a  marching  regiment — " 

"  He's  our  nephew,  Rupert!  " 

"  Mine  —  not  yours.  You  've  nothing  to  do  with 
him,  thank  goodness." 

"  Your  people  are  my  people.  Now  do  not  worry 
yourself  Of  course  I  shall  call  on  your  sister  at 
once.     Will  they  be  here  for  some  time?  " 

"Five  years,  you  may  depend.  He's  just  the  sort 
of  man  to  wedge  himself  into  a  snug  berth  at  Ash- 
olt. You're  an  angel,  Jane;  you  always  are.  But 
fighting  ancestors  are  one  thing,  a  barrack-master 
brother-in-law  is  another." 

"  Has  he  done  any  fighting?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  !  Bemedalled  like  that  Guy  Fawkes 
General  in  the  pawnbroker's  window,  that  Len  was  so 
charmed  by.     But,  my  dear,  I  assure  you  —  " 

"  /  only  just  zvant  to  knoiv  xvJiat  S.  O.  R.  T.  E. 
M.  E.  A.  tneans','  Leonard  hastily  broke  in.     ''I've 


THEN  WOULD  HE  SING  ACHIEVEMENTS  HIGH        1 3 

done  it  all  now,  and  shdnt  wajtt  to  k?iozv  ajiything 
niorey 

"  Sorte  mea  is  Latin  for  My  fate,  or  My  lot  in  life. 
Lcetns  sorte  mea  means  Happy  in  my  lot.  It  is  our 
family  motto.  Noiv,  if  you  ask  another  question,  off 
you  go  !  —  After  all-,  Jane,  you  must  allow  it's  about 
as  hard  lines  as  could  be,  to  have  a  few  ancestral 
acres  and  a  nice  old  place  in  one  of  the  quietest, 
quaintest  corners  of  Old  England ;  and  for  Govern- 
ment to  come  and  plant  a  Camp  of  Instruction,  as 
they  call  it,  and  pour  in  tribes  of  savages  in  war- 
paint to  build  wigwams  within  a  couple  of  miles  of 
your  lodge-gates !  " 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"  Dear  Rupert !  You  are  a  born  poet !  You  do 
magnify  your  woes  so  grandly.  What  was  the 
brother-in-law  like  when  you  saw  him?" 

"  Oh,  the  regular  type.  Hair  cut  like  a  pauper, 
or  a  convict"  (the  Master  of  the  House  tossed 
his  own  locks  as  he  spoke),  "  big,  swaggering  sort  of 
fellow,  swallowed  the  poker  and  not  digested  it,  rather 
good  features,  acclimatized  complexion,  tight  fit  of 
hot-red  cloth,  and  general  pipeclay." 

"  Thejt  he  must  be  the  Sapper  !  "  Leonard  announced, 
as  he  advanced  with  a  firm  step  and  kindling  eyes 
from  the  window.  "  Jemima's  other  brother  is  a 
Gunner.  He  dresses  in  blue.  But  they  both  pipe- 
clay their  gloves,  and  I  pipeclayed  mine  this  morn- 
ing, when  she  did  the  hearth.  You  've  no  idea  how 
nasty  they  look  whilst  it 's  wet,  but  they  dry  as  white 


14  AND   CIRCUMSTANCE   OF   CHIVALRY. 

as  snow,  only  mine  fell  among  the  cinders.  The 
Sapper  is  very  kind,  both  to  her  and  to  me  He 
gave  her  a  brooch,  and  he  is  making  me  a  wooden 
fort  to  put  my  cannon  in.  But  the  Gunner  is  such 
a  funny  man  !  I  said  to  him,  '  Gunner !  why  do  you 
wear  white  gloves?'  and  he  said,*' Young  gentleman, 
why  does  a  miller  wear  a  white  hat?'  He's  very 
funny.  But  I  think  I  like  the  tidy  one  best  of  all. 
He  is  so  very  beautiful,  and  I  should  think  he  musi 
be  very  brave." 

That  Leonard  was  permitted  to  deliver  himself  of 
this  speech  without  a  check  can  only  have  been  due 
to  the  paralyzing  nature  of  the  shock  which  it  in- 
flicted on  his  parents,  and  of  which  he  himself  was 
pleasantly  unconscious.  His  whole  soul  was  in  the 
subject,  and  he  spoke  with  a  certain  grace  and  direct- 
ness of  address,  and  with  a  clear  and  facile  enuncia- 
tion, which  were  among  the  child's  most  conspicuous 
marks  of  good  breeding. 

"  This  is  nice !  "  said  the  Master  of  the  House  be- 
tween his  teeth  with  a  deepened  scowl. 

The  air  felt  stormy,  and  Leonard  began  to  coax. 
He  laid  his  curls  against  his  father's  arm,  and  asked, 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  tidy  one.  Father  dear?  He  is  a 
very  splendid  sort  of  man." 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking?  What  do  you 
mean  by  a  tidy  one?" 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  storm  now;  and 
Leonard  began  to  feel  helpless,  and,  as  usual  in  such 
circumstances,  turned  to  Lady  Jane. 


THEN   WOULD    HE   SIXG,    ETC.  1$ 

"  Mother  told  me  !  "  he  gasped. 

The  Master  of  the  House  also  turned  to  Lady  Jane. 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  of  this  before?'" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  seized  his  son  by  the 
shoulder. 

"  If  that  woman  has  taught  you  to  tell  untruths  — " 

Lady  Jane  firmly  interposed. 

"Leonard  never  tells  untruths,  Rupert.  Please 
don't  frighten  him  into  doing  so.  Now,  Leonard, 
don't  be  foolish  and  cowardly.  Tell  Mother  quite 
bravely  all  about  it.     Perhaps  she  has  forgotten." 

The  child  was  naturally  brave ;  but  the  elements  of 
excitement  and  uncertainty  in  his  up-bringing  were 
producing  their  natural  results  in  a  nervous  and  un- 
equable temperament.  It  is  not  the  least  serious  of 
the  evils  of  being  "  spoilt,"  though,  perhaps,  the 
most  seldom  recognized.  Many  a  fond  parent  justly 
fears  to  overdo  "  lessons,"  who  is  surprising!}'  blind 
to  the  brain-fag  that  comes  from  the  strain  to  live  at 
grown-up  people's  level ;  and  to  the  nervous  exhaust- 
ion produced  in  children,  no  less  than  in  their  elders, 
by  indulged  restlessness,  discontent,  and  craving  for 
fresh  excitement,  and  for  want  of  that  sense  of  power 
and  repose  which  comes  with  habitual  obedience  to 
righteous  rules  and  regulations.  Laws  that  can  be 
set  at  nought  are  among  the  most  demoralizing  of 
influences  which  can  curse  a  nation ;  and  their  effects 
are  hardly  less  disastrous  in  the  nursery.  Moreover, 
an  uncertain  discipline  is  apt  to  take  even  the  spoilt 
by  surprise:   and  as  Leonard  seldom  fully  understood 


l6      WITH   BURNISHED   BRAND   AND   MUSKETOON. 

the  checks  he  did  receive,  they  unnerved  him.  He 
was  unnerved  now ;  and,  even  with  his  hand  in  that 
of  his  mother,  he  stammered  over  his  story  with 
ill-repressed  sobs  and  much  mental  confusion. 

"  W  —  we  met  him  out  walking.  I  m  —  mean  we 
were  out  walking.  He  was  out  riding.  He  looked 
like  a  picture  in  my  t  —  t — tales  from  Froissart.  He 
had  a  very  curious  kind  of  a  helmet  —  n  —  not  quite 
a  helmet,  and  a  beautiful  green  feather — at  least, 
n — not  exactly  a  feather  and  a  beautiful  red  waist- 
coat, only  n  —  not  a  real  waistcoat,  b —  but- — " 

"  Send  him  to  bed !  "  roared  the  Master  of  the 
House.     "  Don't  let  him  prevaricate  any  more  !  " 

"  No,  Rupert,  please  !  I  wish  him  to  try  and  give 
a  straight  account.  Now,  Leonard,  don't  be  a  baby; 
but  go  on  and  tell  the  truth,  like  a  brave  boy." 

Leonard  desperately  proceeded,  sniffing  as  he  did 
so. 

"  He  c  —  carried  a  spear,  like  an  old  warrior.  He 
truthfull)'  did.  On  my  honor !  One  end  was  on  the 
tip  of  his  foot,  and  there  was  a  flag  at  the  other  end 
—  a  real  fluttering  pennon  —  there  truthfully  was  ! 
He  does  poke  with  his  spear  in  battle,  I  do  believe ; 
but  he  didn't  poke  us.  He  was  b  —  b  —  beautiful  to 
b  —  b  —  be  —  hold  !  I  asked  Jemima,  '  Is  he  another 
brother,  for  you  do  have  such  very  nice  brothers  ? ' 
and  she  said,    '  No,  he 's  — '  " 

"  Hang  Jemima !  "  said  the  Master  of  the  House. 
*'  Now  listen  to  me.  You  said  your  mother  told  you. 
What  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 


WITH    BURNISHED    BRAND    AND    MUSKETOON.  1/ 

"  Je  —  Je  —  Jemima  said,  'No,  he's  a'  Orderly;' 
and  asked  the  way  —  I  qu  —  quite  forget  where  to  — 
I  truthfully  do.  And  next  morning  I  asked  Mother 
what  does  Orderly  mean?  And  she  said  tidy.  So  I 
call  him  the  tidy  one.  Dear  Mother,  you  tiruthfully 
did  — •  at  least,"  added  Leonard  chivalrously,  as  Lad)' 
Jane's  face  gav^e  no  response,  "at  least,  if  you've 
forgotten,  never  mind :    it 's  my  fault." 

But  Lady  Jane's  face  was  blank  because  she  was 
trying  not  to  laugh.  The  Master  of  the  House  did 
not  try  long.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  then  burst  into 
a   peal. 

"  Better  say  no  more  to  him,"  murmured  Lady  Jane. 
"  I  'II  see  Jemima  now,  if  he  may  stay  with  you." 

He  nodded,  and  throwing  himself  back  on  the 
couch,  held  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"  Well,  that  '11  do.  Put  these  men  out  of  your 
head,  and  let  me  see  your  drawing." 

Leonard  stretched  his  faculties,  and  perceived  that 
the  storm  was  overpast.  He  clambered  on  to  his 
father's  knee,  and  their  heads  were  soon  bent  lovingly 
together  over  the  much-smudged  sheet  of  paper,  on 
which  the  motto  from  the  chimney-piece  was  irregu- 
larly traced. 

"  You  should  have  copied  it  from  Uncle  Rupert's 
picture.     It  is  in  plain  letters  there." 

Leonard  made  no  reply.  His  head  now  lay  back 
on  his  father's  shoulder,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ceiling,  which  was  of  Elizabethan  date,  with  fan- 
tastic flowers  in   raised   plaster-work.     But   Leonard 


1 8  THE   LOT   IS   CAST   INTO   THE    LAP: 

did  not  see  them  at  that  moment.  His  vision  was 
really  turned  inwards.  Presently  he  said,  "  I  am  try- 
ing to  think.  Don't  interrupt  me,  Father,  if  you 
please." 

The  Master  of  the  House  smiled,  and  gazed  com- 
placently at  the  face  beside  him.  No  painting,  no 
china  in  his  possession,  was  more  beautiful.  Sud- 
denly the  boy  jumped  down  and  stood  alone,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  and  his  eyes  tightly  shut. 

"  I  am  thinking  very  hard,  Father.  Please  tell  me 
again  what  our  motto  means." 

"  '  Lcetus  sorte  inca,  —  Happy  in  my  lot.'  What  are 
you  puzzling  your  little  brains  about?  " 

"  Because  I  know  I  know  something  so  like  it,  and 
I  can't  think  what!  Yes — no!  Wait  a  minute! 
I've  just  got  it!  Yes,  I  remember  now:  it  was  my 
Wednesday  text !  " 

He  opened  wide  shining  eyes,  and  clapped  his 
hands,  and  his  clear  voice  rang  with  the  added  note 
of  triumph,  as  he  cried,  "  '  The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me 
in  a  fair  ground.     Yea,  I  have  a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  held  out  his  arms  without 
speaking ;  but  when  Leonard  had  climbed  back  into 
them,  he  stroked  the  child's  hair  slowly,  and  said,  "  Is 
that  your  Wednesday  text?  " 

"  Last  Wednesday's.  I  learn  a  text  every  day. 
Jemima  sets  them.  She  says  her  grandmother  made 
her  learn  texts  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Now, 
Father  dear,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  would  do : 
and  I  want  you  to  do  it  at  once  —  this  very  minute." 


THE    DISPOSING   THEREOF   IS    OF   THE   LORD.       19 

"  That  is  generally  the  date  of  your  desires.  What 
is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  but  I 
know  what  I  want.  Now  you  and  I  are  all  alone  to 
our  very  selves,  I  want  you  to  come  to  the  organ,  and 
put  that  text  to  music  like  the  anthem  you  made  out 
of  those  texts  Mother  chose  for  you,  for  the  harvest 
festival.  I  '11  tell  you  the  words,  for  fear  you  don't 
quite  remember  them,  and  I  '11  blow  the  bellows. 
You  may  play  on  all-fours  with  both  your  feet  and 
hands ;  you  may  pull  out  trumpet  handle ;  you  may 
make  as  much  noise  as  ever  you  like  —  you  'II  see 
how  I  '11  blow  !" 

Satisfied  by  the  sounds  of  music  that  the  two  were 
happy.  Lady  Jane  was  in  no  haste  to  go  back  to  the 
library;  but  when  she  did  return,  Leonard  greeted 
her  warmly. 

He  was  pumping  at  the  bellows  handle  of  the 
chamber  organ,  before  which  sat  the  Master  of  the 
House,  not  a  ruffle  on  his  brow,  playing  with  "  all- 
fours,"  and  singing  as  he  played. 

Leonard's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  he  cried  im- 
patiently, — 

"  Mother  !  Mother  dear  !  I  've  been  wanting  you 
ever  so  long !  Father  has  set  my  text  to  music,  and 
I  want  you  to  hear  it ;  but  I  want  to  sit  by  him  and 
sing  too.     So  you  must  come  and  blow." 

"  Nonsense,  Leonard  !  Your  mother  must  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.    Jane  !   listen  to  this  !  —  In  a  fa — air 


20  THE    LOT    IS    CAST,    ETC. 

gron  —  nd.  Bit  of  pure  melody,  that,  eh  ?  The  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey  seems  to  stretch  before 
one's  eyes  —  " 

"  No !  Father,  that  is  unfair.  You  are  not  to  tell 
her  bits  in  the  middle.  Begin  at  the  beginning,  and 
—  Mother  dear,  will  you  blow,  and  let  me  sing?  " 

"  Certainly.  Yes,  Rupert,  please.  I  've  done  it 
before ;  and  my  back  is  n't  aching  to-day.  Do  let 
me !  " 

"Yes,  do  let  her,"  said  Leonard,  conclusively;  and 
he  swung  himself  up  into  the  seat  beside  his  father 
without  more  ado. 

"  Now,  Father,  begin  !  Mother,  listen  !  And  when 
it  comes  to  '  Yea'  and  I  pull  trumpet  handle  out,  blow 
as  hard  as  ever  you  can.  This  first  bit  —  when 
he  only  plays — is  very  gentle,  and  quite  easy  to 
blow." 

Deep  breathing  of  the  organ  filled  a  brief  silence, 
then  a  prelude  stole  about  the  room.  Leonard's  eyes 
devoured  his  father's  face,  and  the  Master  of  the 
House  looking  down  on  him,  with  the  double  com- 
placency of  father  and  composer,  began  to  sing: 

"  '  The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  un-to  me  ;  '  "  and,  his 
mouth  wide-parted  with  smiles,  Leonard  sang  also  : 
"  '  The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  —  fallen  unto  me. 

"  '  In  a  fa — air  grou — nd. 

"  '  Yea !  (Now%  Mother  dear,  blow  !  and  fancy  )-ou 
hear  trumpets  !  ) 

"  '  Yea  !  YEA  !   I  have  a  good-ly  Her — i — tage  !  '  " 

And  after  Lady  Jane  had  ceased  to  blow,  and  the 


THE    LOT    IS    CAST,    ETC.  21 

musician  to  make  music,  Leonard  still  danced  and 
sang  wildly  about  the  room. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid,  Mother?  Father  and  I  made  it 
together  out  of  my  Wednesday  text.  Uncle  Rupert, 
can  you  hear  it?  I  don't  think  you  can.  I  believe 
you  are  dead  and  deaf,  though  you  seem  to  see." 

And  standing  face  to  face  with  the  young  Cavalier, 
Leonard  sang  his  Wednesday  text  all  through : 

"  '  The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground ;  yea,  I 
have  a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

But  L^ncle  Rupert  spoke  no  word  to  his  young 
kinsman,  though  he  still  "  seemed  to  see "  through 
eyes  drowned  in  tears. 


CHAPTER    11. 

an  acre  of  barren  ground  ;  ling,  heath,  broom,  furze,  anything." 

Tempest,  Act  i.  Scene  i. 

*'  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 

Srott. 


AKE  a  High- 
\\  a  }^  m  a  n  '  s 
Heath. 

Destroy  ev- 
ery ve.stige  of 
life  with  fire 
and  axe,  from 
the  pine  that 
has  longest 
been  a  land- 
mark, to  the 
smallest  beetle 
smothered  in 
smoking  moss. 
Burn  acres 
of  purple  and 
pink      heather, 

and  pare  away  the  young  bracken  that  springs  \-erdant 

from  its  ashes. 


CAMP   AND   COMRADES.  23 

Let  flame  consume  the  perfumed  gorse  in  all  its 
glory,  and  not  spare  the  broom,  whose  more  exquisite 
yellow  atones  for  its  lack  of  fragrance. 

In  this  common  ruin  be  every  lesser  flower  in- 
volved :  blue  beds  of  speedwell  by  the  wayfarer's 
path  —  the  daintier  milkwort,  and  rougher  red  rattle 
—  down  to  the  very  dodder  that  clasps  the  heather, 
let  them  perish,  and  the  face  of  Dame  Nature  be 
utterly  blackened  !     Then : 

Shave  the  heath  as  bare  as  the  back  of  your  hand, 
and  if  you  have  felled  every  tree,  and  left  not  so  much 
as  a  tussock  of  grass  or  a  scarlet  toadstool  to  break 
the  force  of  the  winds ;  then  shall  the  winds  come, 
from  the  east  and  from  the  west,  from  the  north  and 
from  the  south,  and  shall  raise  on  your  shaven  heath 
clouds  of  sand  that  would  not  discredit  a  desert  in  the 
heart  of  Africa. 

By  some  such  recipe  the  ground  was  prepared  for 
that  Camp  of  Instruction  at  Asholt  which  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  at  least  one  of  its 
neighbors.  Then  a  due  portion  of  this  sandy  oasis  in 
a  wilderness  of  beauty  was  mapped  out  into  lines,  with 
military  precision,  and  on  these  were  built  rows  of 
little  wooden  huts,  which  were  painted  a  neat  and 
useful  black. 

The  huts  for  married  men  and  officers  were  of  vary- 
ing degrees  of  comfort  and  homeliness,  but  those  for 
single  men  were  like  toy-boxes  of  wooden  soldiers; 
it  was  onl)^  by  doing  it  very  tidily  that  you  could  (so 
to  speak )  put  your  pretty  soldiers  away  at  night  when 


24  CAMP   AND   COMRADES. 

you  had  done  playing  with  them,  and  get  the  Hd  to 
shut  down. 

But  then  tidiness  is  a  virtue  which  —  hke  Patience 
—  is  its  own  reward.  And  nineteen  men  who  keep 
themselves  clean  and  their  belongings  cleaner ;  who 
have  made  their  nineteen  beds  into  easy  chairs  before 
most  people  have  got  out  of  bed  at  all ;  whose  tin 
pails  are  kept  as  bright  as  average  teaspoons  (to  the 
envy  of  housewives  and  the  shame  of  housemaids  !  )  ; 
who  establish  a  common  and  a  holiday  side  to  the  re- 
versible top  of  their  one  long  table,  and  scrupulously 
scrub  both  ;  who  have  a  place  for  e\'erything  and  a 
discipline  which  obliges  everybody  to  put  everything 
in  its  place ;  —  nineteen  men,  I  say,  with  such  habits, 
find  more  comfort  and  elbow-room  in  a  hut  than  an 
outsider  might  believe  possible,  and  hang  up  a  photo 
graph  or  two  into  the  bargain. 

But  it  may  be  at  once  conceded  to  the  credit  of 
the  camp,  that  those  who  lived  there  thought  bet- 
ter of  it  than  those  who  did  not,  and  that  those 
who  lived  there  longest  were  apt  to  like  it  best  of 
all. 

It  was,  however,  regarded  by  different  people  from 
very  opposite  points  of  view,  in  each  of  which  was 
some  truth. 

There  were  those  to  whom  the  place  and  the  life 
were  alike  hateful. 

They  said  that,  from  a  soldier's  stand-point,  the  life 
was  one  of  exceptionally  hard  work,  and  uncertain 
stay,  with  no  small  proportion  of  the  hardships  and 


HARD    LINES.  2$ 

even  risks  of  active  service,  and  none  of  the  more 
glorious  chances  of  war. 

That  you  might  die  of  sunstroke  on  the  march,  or 
contract  rheumatism,  fever,  or  dysentery,  under  can- 
vas, without  drawing  Indian  pay  and  allowances ;  and 
that  you  might  ruin  your  uniform  as  rapidly  as  in  a 
campaign,  and  never  hope  to  pin  a  '•ibbon  over  its 
inglorious  stains. 

That  the  military  society  w^as  too  large  to  find 
friends  quickly  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  as  to 
your  neighbors  in  camp,  they  were  sure  to  get  march- 
ing orders  just  when  you  had  learnt  to  like  them.  And 
if  you  did  noi  like  them  — !  (But  for  that  matter, 
quarrelsome  neighbors  are  much  the  same  every- 
where. And  a  boundary  road  between  two  estates 
will  furnish  as  pretty  a  feud  as  the  pump  of  a  common 
back-yard.) 

The  haters  of  the  camp  said  that  it  had  every 
characteristic  to  disqualify  it  for  a  home;  that  it  was 
ugly  and  crowded  without  the  appliances  of  civiliza- 
tion ;  that  it  was  neither  town  nor  country,  and  had  the 
disadvantages  of  each  without  the  merits  of  either. 

That  it  was  unshaded  and  unsheltered,  that  the 
lines  were  monotonous  and  yet  confusing,  and  every 
road  and  parade-ground  more-  dusty  than  another. 

That  the  huts  let  in  the  frost  in  winter  and  the  heat 
in  summer,  and  were  at  once  stuffy  and  draughty. 

That  the  low  roofs  were  like  a  weight  upon  your 
head,  and  that  the  torture  was  invariably  brought  to 
a  climax  on  the  hottest  of  the  dog-days,  when  they 


26  HARD    LINES. 

were  tarred  and  sanded  in  spite  of  your  teeth;  a 
process  which  did  not  insure  their  being  water-tight 
or  snow-proof  when  the  weather  changed. 

That  the  rooms  had  no  cupboards,  but  an  unusual 
number  of  doors,  through  which  no  tall  man  could 
pass  without  stooping. 

That  only  the  publicity  and  squalor  of  the  back- 
premises  of  the  "  Lines  "  ^—  their  drying  clothes,  and 
crumbling  mud  walls,  their  coal-boxes  and  slop-pails 
—  could  exceed  the  depressing  effects  of  the  gardens 
in  front,  where  such  plants  as  were  not  uprooted  by 
the  winds  perished  of  frost  or  drought,  and  where,  if 
some  gallant  creeper  had  stood  fast  and  covered 
the  nakedness  of  your  wooden  hovel,  the  Royal 
Engineers  would  arrive  one  morning,  with  as  little  an- 
nouncement as  the  tar  and  sand  men,  and  tear  down 
the  growth  of  years  before  you  had  finished  shaving, 
for  the  purpose  of  repainting  your  outer  walls. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  those  who  had  a 
great  affection  for  Asholt,  and  affection  never  lacks 
arguments. 

Admitting  some  hardships  and  blunders,  the  defend- 
ers of  the  Camp  fell  back  successfully  upon  statistics 
for  a  witness  to  the  general  good  health. 

They  said  that  if  the  Camp  was  windy  the  breezes 
were  exquisitely  bracing,  and  the  climate  of  that 
particular  part  of  England  such  as  would  qualify  it 
for  a  health-resort  for  invalids,  were  it  only  situated 
in  a  comparatively  inaccessible  part  of  the  Pyrenees, 
instead  of  being  within  an  hour  or  two  of  London. 


SUAS    IIABITANS    AMAT    (XSIREA    VALVAS.  27 

That  this  fact  of  being  within  easy  reach  of  town 
made  the  Camp  practically  at  the  head-quarters  of 
civilization  and  refinement,  whilst  the  simple  and 
sociable  ways  of  living,  necessitated  by  hut-life  in 
common,  emancipated  its  select  society  from  rival 
extravagance  and  cumbersome  formalities. 

That  the  Camp  stood  on  the  borders  of  the  two 
counties  of  England  which  rank  highest  on  the  books 
of  estate  and  house-agents,  and  that  if  you  did  not 
think  the  country  lovely  and  the  neighborhood 
agreeable  you  must  be  hard  to  please. 

That,  as  regards  the  Royal  Engineers,  it  was  one 
of  your  privileges  to  be  hard  to  please,  since  you 
were  entitled  to  their  good  offices;  and  if,  after  all, 
they  sometimes  failed  to  cure  your  disordered  drains 
and  smoky  chimneys,  you,  at  any  rate,  did  not  pay 
as  well  as  suffer,  which  is  the  case  in  civil  life. 

That  low  doors  to  military  quarters  might  be  re- 
garded as  a  practical  joke  on  the  part  of  authorities, 
who  demand  that  soldiers  shall  be  both  tall  and  up- 
right, but  that  man,  whether  military  or  not,  is  an 
adaptable  animal  and  can  get  used  to  anything;  and 
indeed  it  was  only  those  officers  whose  thoughts  were 
more  active  than  their  instincts  who  invariably  crushed 
their  best  hats  before  starting  for  town. 

That  huts  (if  only  they  were  a  little  higher!)  had  a 
great  many  advantages  over  small  houses,  which  were 
best  appreciated  by  those  who  had  tried  drawing 
lodging  allowance  and  living  in  villas,  and  which  would 
be  fully  known  if  ever  the  Lines  were  rebuilt  in  brick. 


28  AUF    WIEDER    SEHN  ! 

That  on  moonlit  nights  the  airs  that  fanned  the 
silent  Camp  were  as  dry  and  wholesome  as  by  day ; 
that  the  song  of  the  distant  nightingale  could  be 
heard  there ;  and  finally,  that  from  end  to  end  of 
this  dwelling-place  of  ten  thousand  to  (on  occasion) 
twenty  thousand  men,  a  woman  might  pass  at  mid- 
night with  greater  safety  than  in  the  country  lanes  of 
a  rural  village  or  a  police-protected  thoroughfare  of 
the  metropolis. 

But,  in  truth,  the  Camp's  best  defence  in  the  hearts 
of  its  defenders  was  that  it  was  a  camp,  —  military 
life  in  epitome,  with  all  its  defects  and  all  its  charm ; 
not  the  least  of  which,  to  some  whimsical  minds,  is, 
that  it  represents,  as  no  other  phase  of  society  repre- 
sents, the  human  pilgrimage  in  brief. 

Here  be  sudden  partings,  but  frequent  reunions; 
the  charities  and  courtesies  of  an  uncertain  life  lived 
largely  in  common ;  the  hospitality  of  passing  hosts 
to  guests  who  tarry  but  a  day. 

Here,  surely,  should  be  the  home  of  the  sage  as 
well  as  the  soldier,  where  every  hut  might  fitly  carry 
the  ancient  motto,  "  Dwell  as  if  about  to  Depart," 
where  work  bears  the  nobler  name  of  duty,  and 
where  the  living,  hastening  on  his  business  amid 
"  the  hurryings  of  this  life,"  ^  must  pause  and  stand 
to  salute  the  dead  as  he  is  carried  by. 

Bare  and  dusty  are  the  Parade  Grounds,  but  they 
are  thick  with  memories.  Here  were  blessed  the 
colors  that  became  a  young  man's  shroud  that  they 

'   Bunvan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


AUF   WIEDEK   SEHN  !  29 

might  not  be  a  nation's  shame.  Here  march  and 
music  welcome  the  coming  and  speed  the  parting 
regiments.  On  this  Parade  the  rising  sun  is  greeted 
with  gun-fire  and  trumpet  clarions  shriller  than  the 
cock,  and  there  he  sets  to  a  like  salute  with  tuck  of 
drum.  Here  the  young  recruit  drills,  the  warrior 
puts  on  his  medal,  the  old  pensioner  steals  back 
to  watch  them,  and  the  soldiers'  children  play  — 
sometimes  at  fighting  or  flag-wagging,^  but  oftener  at 
funerals  ! 


'  "  Flag-wagging,"  a  name  among  soldiers'  children  for  "  signal- 
lirs" 


CHAPTER   III. 


Ut  Jiiigraturus  habita  "  ("  Dwell  as  if  about  to  DejDart 
House  Motto. 


Old 


HE  barrack- 
master's  wife 
was  standing 
in  the  porch 
of  her  hut, 
the  sides  of 
which  were 
of  the  sim- 
plest trellis- 
w  o  r  k  of 
crossed  fir- 
poles,  thro' 
which  she 
could  watch 
the  proceed- 
ings of  the 
gardener 
without  bak- 
ing herself  in 
the  sun.  Sud- 
d  e  n  ly  she 
snatched  up 
a  green- 
lined      white 


umbrella,  that  had  seen  service  in  India,  and  ran  out. 


A  FUNERAL;    AND  THIS  HATH  NOW  HIS  HEART.       3  I 

"O'Reilly!  what  z>  that  baby  doing?  There!  that 
white-headed  child  crossing  the  parade  with  a  basket 
in  its  little  arms  !  It 's  got  nothing  on  its  head.  Please 
go  and  take  it  to  its  mother  before  it  gets  sunstroke." 

The  gardener  was  an  Irish  soldier  —  an  old  soldier, 
as  the  handkerchief  depending  from  his  cap,  to  pro- 
tect the  nape  of  his  neck  from  the  sun,  bore  witness. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  and  stepped  without  ceremony 
over  the  garden  paling  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the 
parade.  But  he  stepped  back  again  at  once,  and 
resumed  his  place  in  the  garden. 

"He's  Corporal  Macdonald's  child,  madam.  The 
Blind  Baby,  they  call  him.  Not  a  bit  of  harm  will  he 
get.  They  're  as  hard  as  nails  the  whole  lot  of  them. 
If  I  was  to  take  him  in  now,  he  'd  be  out  before  my 
back  was  turned.  His  brothers  and  sisters  are  at  the 
school,  and  Blind  Baby's  just  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long,  playing  at  funerals  all  the  time." 

"Blind  !  Is  he  blind?  Poor  little  soul !  But  he  's 
got  a  great  round  potato-basket  in  his  arms.  Surely 
they  don't  make  that  afflicted  infant  fetch  and  carry?  " 

O'Reilly  laughed  so  heartily,  that  he  scandalized 
his  own  sense  of  propriety. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  madam.  But  there's  no  fear 
that  Blind  Baby  '11  fetch  and  carry.  Ev'ery  man  in 
the  Lines  is  his  nurse." 

"  But  what 's  he  doing  with  that  round  hamper  as 
big  as  himself?  " 

"  It 's  just  a  make-believe  for  the  Big  Drum,  madam. 
The  Dead  March  is  his  whole  delight.     'Twas  only 


32     A  funeral;  and  this  hath  now  his  heart. 

yesterday  I  said  to  his  father,  '  Corporal,'  I  says, 
'  we  '11  live  to  see  Blind  Baby  a  band-master  yet,'  I 
says;  'it's  a  pure  pleasure  to  see  him  beat  out  a 
tune  with  his  closed  fist.'  " 

"Will  I  go  and  borrow  a  barrow  now,  madam?" 
added  O'Reilly,  returning  to  his  duties.  He  was 
always  willing  and  never  idle,  but  he  liked  change 
of  occupation. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  go  awa}-.  We  sha'n't  want  a 
wheelbarrow  till  we  've  finished  trenching  this  border, 
and  picking  out  the  stones.  Then  \-ou  can  take 
them  away  and   fetch  the  new  soil." 

"  You  're  at  a  deal  of  pains,  madam,  and  it 's  a 
poor  patch  when  all 's  done  to  it." 

"  I  can't  live  without  flowers,  O'Reilh',  and  the 
Colonel  says  I  may  do  what  T  like  with  this  bare 
.strip." 

"  Ah !  Don't  touch  the  dirty  stones  with  your 
fingers,  ma'am.  I  '11  have  the  lot  picked  in  no  time 
at  all." 

"  You  see,  O'Reilly,  you  can't  grow  flowers  in  sand 
unless  you  can  command  water,  and  the  Colonel  tells 
me  that  when  it 's  hot  here  the  water  supply  runs 
short,  and  we  may  n't  water  the  garden  from  the 
pumps." 

O'Reilly  smiled  superior. 

"  The  Colonel  will  get  what  water  he  wants,  ma'am. 
Never  fear  him  !  There  's  ways  and  means.  Look 
at  the  gardens  of  the  Royal  Engineers'  Lines.  In 
the  hottest  of  summer  weather  they're  as  green  as 


EXPERIENCE   KEEPS   A   DEAR   SCHOOL.  33 

Old  Ireland;  and  it's  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
Royal  Engineers  can  requisition  showers  from  the 
skies  when  they  need  them,  more  than  the  rest  of 
Her  Majesty's  forces." 

"  Perhaps  the  Royal  Engineers  do  what  I  mean  to  do 
—  take  more  pains  than  usual;  and  put  in  soil  that 
will  retain  some  moisture.  One  can't  make  poor  land 
yield  anything  without  pains,  O'Reilly,  and  this  is  like 
the  dry  bed  of  a  stream  —  all  sand  and  pebbles." 

"That's  as  true  a  word  as  ever  ye  spoke,  madam, 
and  if  it  were  not  that  'twould  be  taking  a  liberty,  I  'd 
give  ye  some  advace  about  gardening  in  Camp.  It 's 
not  the  first  time  I  'm  quartered  in  Asholt,  and  I 
know  the  ways  of  it." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  advice.  You  know  I  have 
never  been  stationed  here  before." 

"  'T  is  an  old  soldier's  advice,  madam." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  lady,  warmly. 

O'Reilly  was  kneeling  to  his  work.  He  now  sat 
back  on  his  heels,  and  not  without  a  certain  dignity 
that  bade  defiance  to  his  surroundings  he  commenced 
his  oration. 

"Please  GOD  to  spare  you  and  the  Colonel,  madam, 
to  put  in  his  time  as  Barrack  Master  at  this  station, 
ye  'II  see  many  a  regiment  come  and  go,  and  be  mak- 
ing themselves  at  home  all  along.  And  anny  one  that 
knows  this  place,  and  the  nature  of  the  soil,  tear-rs 
would  overflow  his  eyes  to  see  the  regiments  come  for 
drill,  and  betake  themselves  to  gardening.  Maybe 
the  boys  have  marched  in  footsore  and  fasting,  in  the 

3 


34  EXPERIENCE    KEEPS   A   DEAR   SCHOOL. 

hottest  of  weather,  to  cold  comfort  in  empty  quarters, 
and  they'll  not  let  many  hours  flit  over  their  heads 
before  some  of  'em  '11  get  possession  of  a  load  of 
green  turf,  and  be  laying  it  dow-n  for  borders  around 
their  huts.  It's  the  young  ones  I'm  speaking  of; 
and  there  ye '11  see  them,  in  the  blazing  sun,  with 
their  shirts  open,  and  not  a  thing  on  their  heads, 
squaring  and  fitting  the  turfs  for  bare  life,  watering 
them  out  of  old  pie-dishes  and  stable-buckets  and 
whatnot,  singing  and  whistling,  and  fetching  and 
carrying  between  the  pump  and  their  quarters,  just 
as  cheerful  as  so  many  birds  building  their  nests  in 
the  spring." 

"  A  very  pretty  picture,  O'Reilly.  Why  should  it 
bring  tears  to  your  eyes?  An  old  soldier  like  you 
must  know  that  one  would  never  have  a  home  in 
quarters  at  all  if  one  did  not  begin  to  make  it  at 
once." 

"True. for  you,  madam.  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  But 
it  goes  to  your  heart  to  see  labor  thrown  away ;  and 
it 's  not  once  in  a  hundred  times  that  grass  planted 
like  that  will  get  hold  of  a  soil  like  this,  and  the  boys 
themselves  at  drill  all  along,  or  gone  out  under  can- 
vas in  Bottomless  Bog  before  the  week 's  over,  as 
likely  as  not." 

"  That  would  be  unlucky.  But  one  must  take  one's 
luck  as  it  comes.  And  you  've  not  told  me,  now, 
what  you  do  advise  for  Camp  Gardens." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  'm  coming  to,  ma'am.  See  the 
old  soldier!     What  does  he  do?     Turns  the  bucket 


BEANS   IN   THE   MUD  'LL   GROW   LIKE   WOOD.      35 

Upside  down  outside  his  hut,  and  sits  on  it,  with  a  cap 
on  his  head,  and  a  handkerchief  down  his  back,  and 
some  tin  tacks,  and  a  ball  of  string:  trust  a  soldier's 
eye  to  get  the  lines  straight  —  every  one  of  them 
beginning  on  the  ground  and  going  nearly  up  to  the 
roof." 

"  For  creepers,  I  suppose?  What  does  the  old 
soldier  plant?  " 

"  Beans,  madam  —  scarlet  runners.  These  are  the 
things  for  Asholt.  A  few  beans  are  nothing  in  your 
baggage.  They  like  a  warm  place,  and  when  they  're 
on  the  sunny  side  of  a  hut  they  've  got  it,  and  no 
mistake.  They're  growing  while  you're  on  duty. 
The  flowers  are  the  right  soldier's  color;  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  beans,  ye  may  put  your  hand  out  of  the 
window  and  gather  them,  and  no  trouble  at  all." 

"  The  old  soldier  is  very  wise;  but  I  think  I  must 
have  more  flowers  than  that.  So  I  plant,  and  if  they 
die  I  am  very  sorry ;  and  if  they  live,  and  other 
people  have  them,  I  try  to  be  glad.  One  ought  to 
learn  to  be  unselfish,  O'Reilly,  and  think  of  one's 
successors." 

"  And  that 's  true,  madam ;  barring  that  I  never 
knew  any  one's  successor  to  have  the  same  fancies  as 
himself:  one  plants  trees  to  give  shelter,  and  the  next 
cuts  them  down  to  let  in  the  air." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  only  way  is  to  be  prepared 
for  the  worst.  The  rose  we  planted  yesterday  by  the 
porch  is  a  great  favorite  of  mine ;  but  the  Colonel 
calls  it  '  Marching  Orders.'     It  used  to  grow  over  my 


36      BRING  FLOWERS  THAT  SAD  EMBROIDERY  WEAR. 

window  in  my  old  home,  and  I  have  planted  it  by 
every  home  I  have  had  since;  but  the  Colonel  says 
whenever  it  settled  and  began  to  flower  the  regiment 
got  the  route." 

"The  Colonel  must  name  it  again,  madam,"  said 
O'Reilly,  gallantly,  as  he  hitched  up  the  knees  of  his 
trousers,  and  returned  to  the  border.  "  It  shall  be 
'  Standing  Orders '  now,  if  soap  and  water  can  make 
it  blossom,  and  I  'm  spared  to  attend  to  it  all  the  time. 
Many  a  hundred  roses  may  you  and  the  Colonel  pluck 
from  it,  and  never  one  with  a  thorn  !  " 

"Thank  you,  O'Reilly;  thank  you  very  much. 
Soapy  water  is  very  good  for  roses,  I  believe?" 

"  It  is  so,  madam.  I  put  in  a  good  deal  of  my 
time  as  officer's  servant  after  I  was  in  the  Connaught 
Rangers,  and  the  Captain  I  was  with  one  time  was  as 
fond  of  flowers  as  yourself.  There  was  a  mighty  fine 
rose-bush  by  his  quarters,  and  every  morning  I  had  to 
carry  out  his  bath  to  it.  He  used  more  soap  than 
most  gentlemen,  and  when  he  sent  me  to  the  town 
for  it  —  'It 's  not  for  myself,  O'Reilly,'  he  'd  say,  '  so 
much  as  for  the  Rose.  Bring  large  tablets,'  he  'd  say, 
'  and  the  best  scented  ye  can  get.  The  roses  '11  be 
the  sweeter  for  it.'  Xhat  was  his  way  of  joking,  and 
never  a  smile  on  his  face.  He  was  odd  in  many  of 
his  ways,  was  the  Captain,  but  he  was  a  grand  soldier 
entirely;  a  good  officer,  and  a  good  friend  to  his 
men,  and  to  the  wives  and  children  no  less.  The 
regiment  was  in  India  when  he  died  of  cholera,  in 
twenty-four  hours,  do  what  I  would.     '  Oh,  the  cramp 


BRING  FLOWERS  THAT  SAD  EMBROIDERY  WEAR.      37 

in  my  legs,  O'Reilly !  '  he  says.  '  God  bless  ye, 
Captain,'  says  I ;  '  never  mind  your  legs  ;  I  'd  manage 
the  cramp,  sir,'  I  says,  '  if  I  could  but  keep  up  your 
heart.'  '  Ye '11  not  do  that,  O'Reilly,'  he  says,  '  for  all 
your  goodness  ;  I  lost  it  too  long  ago.'  That  was  his 
way  of  joking,  and  never  a  smile  on  his  face.  'Twas 
a  pestilential  hole  we  were  in,  and  that's  the  truth; 
and  cost  Her  Majesty  more  in  lives  than  would  have 
built  healthy  quarters  and  given  us  every  comfort; 
but  the  flowers  throve  there  if  we  did  n't,  and  tlie 
Captain's  grave  was  filled  till  ye  could  n't  get  the 
sight  of  him  for  roses.  He  was  a  good  officer,  and 
beloved  of  his  men ;  and  better  master  never  a  man 
had  !  '• 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  O'Reilh'  drew  his  sleeve 
sharply  across  his  eyes,  and  then  bent  again  to  his 
work,  which  was  why  he  failed  to  see  what  the  Bar- 
rack Master's  wife  saw,  and  did  not  for  some  moments 
discover  that  she  was  no  longer  in  the  garden.  The 
matter  was  this : 

The  Barrack  Master's  quarters  were  close  to  the 
Iron  Church,  and  the  straight  road  that  ran  past  both 
was  crossed,  just  beyond  the  church,  by  another 
straight  road,  which  finally  led  out  to  and  joined  a 
country  highway.  From  this  highway  an  open  car- 
riage and  pair  were  being  driven  into  the  camp  as  a 
soldier's  funeral  was  marching  to  church.  The  band 
frightened  the  horses,  who  were  got  past  with  some 
difficulty,  and  having  turned  the  sharp  corner,  were 
coming    rapidly    towards    the    Barrack    Master's    hut 


38  BLOOD   IS   THICKER   THAN   WATER. 

when  Blind  Bab}',  excited  by  the  band,  strayed  from 
his  parade-ground,  tumbled,  basket  and  all,  into  the 
ditch  that  divided  it  from  the  road,  picked  up  himself 
and  his  basket,  and  was  sturdily  setting  forth  across 
the  road  just  as  the  frightened  horses  came  plunging 
to  the  spot. 

The  Barrack  Master's  wife  was  not  very  young, 
and  not  very  slender.  Rapid  movements  were  not 
easy  to  her.  She  was  nervous  also,  and  could  never 
afterwards  remember  what  she  did  with  herself  in 
those  brief  moments  before  she  became  conscious 
that  the  footman  had  got  to  the  horses'  heads,  and 
that  she  herself  was  almost  under  their  feet,  with  Blind 
Baby  in  her  arms.  Blind  Baby  himself  recalled  her 
to  consciousness  by  the  ungrateful  fashion  in  which 
he  pummelled  his  deliverer  with  his  fists  and  howled 
for  his  basket,  which  had  rolled  under  the  carriage  to 
add  to  the  confusion.  Nor  was  he  to  be  pacified  till 
O'Reilh'  took  him  from  her  arms. 

By  this  time  men  had  rushed  from  every  hut  and 
kitchen,  wash-place  and  shop,  and  were  swarming  to 
the  rescue,  and  through  the  whole  disturbance,  like 
minute-guns,  came  the  short  barks  of  a  black  puppy, 
which  Leonard  had  insisted  upon  taking  with  him  to 
show  to  his  aunt  despite  the  protestations  of  his 
mother :  for  it  was  Lady  Jane's  carriage,  and  this  was 
how  the  sisters  met. 

They  had  been  sitting  together  for  some  time,  so 
absorbed  by  the  strangeness  and  the  pleasure  of  theii 


BLOOD    IS   THICKER   THAN   WATER.  39 

new  relations  that  Leonard  and  his  puppy  had  sHpped 
away  unobserved,  when  Lady  Jane,  who  was  near  the 
window,  called  to  her  sistcr-in-Iaw:  — "  Adelaide,  tell 
me,  my  dear,  is  this  Colonel  Jones?"  She  spoke 
with  some  trepidation.  It  is  so  easy  for  those  unac- 
quainted with  uniforms  to  make  strange  blunders. 
Moreover,  the  Barrack  Master,  though  soldierly  look- 
ing, was  so,  despite  a  very  unsoldierly  defect.  He 
■was  exceeding  stout,  and  as  he  approached  the 
miniature  garden-gate.  Lady  Jane  found  herself  gaz- 
ing with  some  anxiety  to  see  if  he  could  possibly  get 
through. 

But  O'Reilly  did  not  make  an  empty  boast  when 
lie  said  that  a  soldier's  eye  was  true.  The  Colonel 
came  quite  neatly  through  the  toy  entrance,  knocked 
nothing  down  in  the  porch,  bent  and  bared  his  head 
with  one  gesture  as  he  passed  under  the  drawing-room 
doorway,  and  bowing  again  to  Lady  Jane,  moved 
straight  to  the  side  of  his  wife. 

Something  in  the  action  —  a  mixture  of  dignity 
and  devotion,  with  just  a  touch  of  defiance  —  went  to 
Lady  Jane's  heart.  She  went  up  to  him  and  held  out 
both  her  hands: — "Please  shake  hands  with  me, 
Colonel  Jones.  I  am  so  very  happy  to  have  found 
a  sister !  "  In  a  moment  more  she  turned  round, 
saying: — "I  must  show  you  your  nephew.  Leon- 
ard !  "     But  Leonard  was  not  there. 

"  I  fancy  I  have  seen  him  already,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  If  he  is  a  very  beautiful  boy,  very  beautifully  dressed 
in  velvet,  he  's  with  O'Reilly,  watching  the  funeral." 


40  TOLL   FOR   THE   BRAVE  i 

Lady  Jane  looked  horrified,  and  Mrs.  Jones  looked 
much  relieved. 

"He's  quite  safe  if  he's  with  O'Reilly.  But  give 
me  my  sunshade,  Henry,  please ;  I  dare  say  Lady 
Jane  would  like  to  see  the  funeral  too." 

It  is  an  Asholt  amenity  to  take  care  that  you  miss 
no  opportunity  of  seeing  a  funeral.  It  would  not 
have  occurred  to  Lady  Jane  to  wish  to  go,  but  as  her 
only  child  had  gone  she  went  willingly  to  look  for  him. 
As  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  hut  they  came 
straight  upon  it,  and  at  that  moment  the  "  Dead 
March  "  broke  forth  afresh. 

The  drum  beat  out  those  familiar  notes  which 
strike  upon  the  heart  rather  than  the  ear,  the  brass 
screamed,  the  ground  trembled  to  the  tramp  of  feet 
and  the  lumbering  of  the  gun-carriage,  and  Lady 
Jane's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears  at  the  sight  of 
the  dead  man's  accoutrements  lying  on  the  Union 
Jack  that  serves  a  soldier  for  a  pall.  As  she  dried 
them  she  saw  Leonard. 

Drawn  up  in  accurate  line  with  the  edge  of  the 
road,  O'Reilly  was  standing  to  salute ;  and  as  near  to 
the  Irish  private  as  he  could  squeeze  himself  stood 
the  boy,  his  whole  body  stretched  to  the  closest 
possible  imitation  of  his  new  and  deeply-revered 
friend,  his  left  arm  glued  to  his  side,  and  the  back  of 
his  little  right  hand  laid  against  his  brow,  gazing  at 
the  pathetic  pageant  as  it  passed  him  with  devouring 
eyes.  And  behind  them  stood  Blind  Baby,  beating 
upon  his  basket. 


TOLL   FOR   THE    BRAVE!  4I 

For  the  basket  had  been  recovered,  and  Blind 
Baby's  equanimity  also ;  and  he  wandered  up  and 
down  the  parade  again  in  the  sun,  long  after  the 
soldier's  funeral  had  wailed  its  way  to  the  graveyard, 
over  the  heather-covered  hill. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


•'  My  mind  is  in  the  anomalous  condition  of  hating  war,  and  loving 
its  discipline,  which  has  been  an  incalculable  contribution  to  the  sen- 
timent of  duty  .  .  .  the  devotion  of  the  common  soldier  to  his 
leader  (the  sign  for  him  of  hard  duty)  is  the  type  of  all  higher  de- 
votedness,  and  is  full  of  promise  to  other  and  better  generations." 

George  Eliot. 

OUR  sister  is 
as  nice  as 
nice  can  be, 
Rupert;  and  I 
like  the  Bar- 
rack Master 
very  much, 
too.  He  is 
stout !  But  he 
is  very  active 
and  upright, 
and  his  man- 
ners to  his  wife 
are  wonderful- 
ly pretty.  Do 
}'  o  u  k  n  o  w, 
there  is  some- 
thing to  me 
most  touching 
in  the  way 
these  two  have 
knocked 
about  the 
world  togeth- 
er, and  seem 
so  happy  with 


birth's  gude,  but  breeding's  better.     43 

so  little.  Cottagers  could  hardly  live  more  simply, 
and  yet  their  ideas,  or  at  any  rate  their  experiences, 
seem  so  much  larger  than   one's   own." 

"  My  dear  Jane  !  if  you  've  taken  them  up  from  the 
romantic  point  of  view  all  is,  indeed,  accomplished. 
I  know  the  wealth  of  your  imagination,  and  the  riches 
of  its  charity.  If,  in  such  a  mood,  you  will  admit 
that  Jones  is  stout,  he  must  be  fat  indeed  !  Never 
again  upbraid  me  with  the  price  that  I  paid  for  that 
Chippendale  arm-chair.  It  will  hold  the  Barrack 
Master." 

"Rupert!  —  I  cannot  help  saying  it  —  it  ought  to 
have  held  him  long  ago.  It  makes  me  miserable  to 
think  that  they  have  never  been  under  our  roof." 

"  Jane  !  Be  miserable  if  you  must ;  but,  at  least,  be 
accurate.  The  Barrack  Master  was  in  India  when  I 
bought  that  paragon  of  all  Chips,  and  he  has  only 
come  home  this  year.  Nay,  my  dear !  Don't  be 
vexed.  I  give  you  my  word,  I  'm  a  good  deal  more 
ashamed  than  I  like  to  own  to  think  how  Adelaide 
has  been  treated  by  the  family  —  with  me  as  its  head. 
Did  you  make  my  apologies  to-day,  and  tell  her  that 
I  shall  ride  out  to-morrow  and  pay  my  respects  to 
her  and  Jones?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  told  her  you  were  obliged  to  go  to 
town,  and  I  would  not  delay  to  call  and  ask  if  I  could 
be  of  use  to  them.  I  begged  them  to  come  here  till 
their  quarters  are  quite  finished ;  but  they  won't. 
They  say  they  are  settled.  I  could  not  say  much, 
because  we  ought  to  have  asked  them  sooner.     He 


44        BIRTH  'S   GUUE,   BUT   BREEDING  'S    BETTER. 

is  rather  on  his  dignity  with  us,  I  think,  and  no 
wonder." 

"  He 's  disgustingly  on  his  dignity !  They  both 
are.  Because  the  family  resented  the  match  at  first, 
they  have  refused  every  kind  of  help  that  one  would 
have  been  glad  to  give  him  as  Adelaide's  husband,  if 
only  to  secure  their  being  in  a  decent  position. 
Neither  interest  nor  money  would  he  accept,  and 
Adelaide  has  followed  his  lead.  She  has  very  little 
of  her  own,  unfortunately ;  and  she  knows  how  my 
father  left  things  as  well  as  I  do,  and  never  would 
accept  a  farthing  more  than  her  bare  rights.  I  tried 
some  dodges,  through  Quills ;  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
The  vexation  is  that  he  has  taken  this  post  of  Barrack 
Master  as  a  sort  of  pension,  which  need  never  have 
been.  I  suppose  they  have  to  make  that  son  an 
allowance.  It's  not  likely  he  lives  on  his  pay.  I 
can't  conceive  how  they  scrub  along." 

And  as  the  Master  of  the  House  threw  himself  into 
the  paragon  of  all  Chips,  he  ran  his  fingers  through 
hair,  the  length  and  disorder  of  which  would  have 
made  the  Barrack  Master  feel  positively  ill,  with  a 
gesture  of  truly  dramatic  despair. 

"  Your  sister  has  made  her  room  look  wonderfully 
pretty.  One  would  never  imagine  those  huts  could 
look  as  nice  as  they  do  inside.  But  it 's  like  play- 
ing with  a  doll's  house.  One  feels  inclined  to  ex- 
amine everything,  and  to  be  quite  pleased  that  the 
windows  have  glass  in  them,  and  will  really  open 
and  shut." 


NON   EADEM   MIRAMUR.  45 

The  Master  of  the  House  raised  his  eyebrows 
funnily. 

"  You  did  take  rose-colored  spectacles  with  you  to 
the  Camp  !  " 

Lady  Jane  laughed. 

"  I  did  not  see  the  Camp  itself  through  them. 
What  an  incomparably  dreary  place  it  is  !  It  makes 
me  think  of  little  woodcuts  in  missionary  reports  — 
'  Sketch  of  a  Native  Settlement '  —  rows  of  little 
black  huts  that  look,  at  a  distance,  as  if  one  must 
creep  into  them  on  all-fours ;  nobody  about,  and  an 
iron  church  on  the  hill." 

"  Most  accurately  described !  And  you  wonder 
that  I  regret  that  a  native  settlement  should  have 
been  removed  from  the  enchanting  distance  of  mis- 
sionary reports  to  become  my  permanent  neighbor." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  the  effect  it  produces  on  me 
is  to  make  me  feel  quite  ashamed  of  the  peace  and 
pleasure  of  this  dear  old  place,  the  shade  and  green- 
ery outside,  the  space  above  my  head,  and  the  lovely 
things  before  my  eyes  inside  (for  you  know,  Rupert, 
how  I  appreciate  your  decorative  tastes,  though  I 
have  so  few  myself.  I  only  scolded  about  the  Chip 
because  I  think  you  might  have  got  him  for  less)  — 
when  so  many  men  bred  to  similar  comforts,  and  who 
have  served  their  country  so  well,  with  wives  I  dare 
say  quite  as  delicate  as  I  am,  have  to  be  cooped  up 
in  those  ugly  little  kennels  in  that  dreary  place  —  " 

"  What  an  uncomfortable  thing  a  Scotch  conscience 
is  !  "  interrupted  the  Master  of  the  House.     "  By-the- 


46  NON   EADEM   MIRAMUR. 

bye,  those  religious  instincts,  which  are  also  character- 
istic of  your  race,  must  have  found  one  redeeming 
feature  in  the  Camp,  the  '  iron  church  on  the  hill ;  ' 
especially  as  I  imagine  that  it  is  puritanically  ugly !  " 

"  There  was  a  funeral  going  into  it  as  we  drove 
into  Camp,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the  horses  were 
very  much  frightened." 

"Richards  fidgets  those  horses;  they're  quiet 
enough    with     me." 

"  They  did  not  like  the  military  band." 

"  They  must  get  used  to  the  band  and  to  other  mili- 
tary nuisances.  It  is  written  in  the  stars,  as  I  too 
clearly  foresee,  that  we  shall  be  driving  in  and  out  of 
that  Camp  three  days  a-week.  I  can't  go  to  my  club 
without  meeting  men  I  was  at  school  with  who  are 
stationed  at  Asholt,  and  expect  me  to  look  them  up. 
As  to  the  women,  I  met  a  man  yesterday  who  is 
living  in  a  hut,  and  expects  a  Dowager  Countess  and 
her  two  daughters  for  the  ball.  He  has  given  up  his 
dressing-room  to  the  Dowager,  and  put  two  barrack- 
beds  into  the  coal-hole  for  the  young  ladies,  he  says. 
It's  an  insanity  !  " 

"  Adelaide  told  me  about  the  ball.  The  Camp 
seems  very  gay  just  now.  They  have  had  theatricals ; 
and  there  is  to  be  a  grand  Field  Day  this  week." 

"  So  our  visitors  have  already  informed  me.  They 
expect  to  go.  Louisa  Mainwaring  is  looking  hand- 
somer than  ever,  and  I  have  always  regarded  her  as 
a  girl  with  a  mind.  I  took  her  to  see  the  peep  I 
have  cut  opposite  to  the   island,   and    I    could    not 


FIELD    DAYS.  47 

imagine  why  those  fine  eyes  of  hers  looked  so  blank. 
Presently  she  said,  '  I  suppose  you  can  see  the  Camp 
from  the  little  pine-wood?'  And  to  the  little  pine- 
wood  we  had  to  go.  Both  the  girls  have  got  stiff 
necks  with  craning  out  of  the  carriage  window  to 
catch  sight  of  the  white  tents  among  the  heather  as 
they  came  along  in  the  train." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  take  them  to  the  Field  Day , 
but  I  am  very  nervous  about  those  horses,  Rupert." 

"  The  horses  will  be  taken  out  before  any  firing  be- 
gins. As  to  bands,  the  poor  creatures  must  learn, 
like  their  master,  to  endure  the  brazen  liveliness  of 
military  music.  It 's  no  fault  of  mine  that  our  nerves 
are  scarified  by  any  sounds  less  soothing  than  the 
crooning  of  the  wood  pigeons  among  the  pines  !  " 

No  one  looked  forward  to  the  big  Field  Day  with 
keener  interest  than  Leonard ;  and  only  a  few  privi- 
leged persons  knew  more  about  the  arrangements 
for  the  day  than  he  had  contrived  to  learn. 

O'Reilly  was  sent  over  with  a  note  from  Mrs.  Jones 
to  decline  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  Lady  Jane's  carriage 
for  the  occasion.  She  was  not  very  well.  Leonard 
waylaid  the  messenger  (whom  he  hardly  recognized 
as  a  tidy  one !  ),  and  O'Reilly  gladly  imparted  all  that 
he  knew  about  the  Field  Day :  and  this  was  a  good 
deal.  He  had  it  from  a  friend  —  a  corporal  in  the 
Head  Quarters  Office. 

As  a  rule,  Leonard  only  enjoyed  a  limited  popu- 
larity with  his  mother's  visitors.  He  was  very  pretty 
and  very  amusing,  and  had  better  qualities  even  than 


48  OLD   SOLDIERS. 

these  ;  but  he  was  restless  and  troublesome.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  the  young  ladies  suffered  him  to 
trample  their  dresses  and  interrupt  their  conversation 
without  remonstrance.  He  knew  more  about  the 
Field  Day  than  any  one  in  the  house,  and,  standing 
among  their  pretty  furbelows  and  fancy-work  in  stiff 
military  attitudes,  he  imparted  his  news  with  an  un- 
successful imitation  of  an  Irish  accent. 

"  O'Reilly  says  the  March  Past  '11  be  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  Sandy  Slopes." 

"  Louisa,  is  that  Major  O'Reilly  of  the  Rifles?" 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  Is  your  friend  O'Reilly  in 
the  Rifles,  Leonard?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  he's  an  owld  soldier  —  he 
told  me  so." 

"Old,  Leonard;  not  owld.  You  mustn't  talk  like 
that." 

"  I  shall  if  I  like.     He  does,  and  I  mean  to." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did,  Louisa.     He  's  always  joking." 

"No,  he  isn't.  He  didn't  joke  when  the  funeral 
went  past.  He  looked  quite  grave,  as  if  he  was  say- 
ing his  prayers,  and  stood  so'' 

"  How  touching  !  " 

"  How  like  him  !  '' 

"  How  graceful  and  tender-hearted  Irishmen  are  !  " 

"  I  stood  so,  too.  I  mean  to  do  as  like  him  as 
ever  I  can.     I  do  love  him  so  very  very  much  !  " 

"  Dear  boy  !  " 

"  You  good,  affectionate  little  soul !  " 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Leonard  dear." 


OLD    SOLDIERS.  49 

"No,  thank  you.  I'm  too  old  for  kissing.  He's 
going  to  march  past,  and  he  's  going  to  look  out  for 
me  with  the  tail  of  his  e)'e,  and  I  'm  going  to  look 
out  for  him."^ 

"  Do,  Leonard  ;  and  mind  you  tell  us  when  you  see 
him  coming." 

"  I  can't  promise.  I  might  forget.  But  perhaps 
you  can  know  him  by  the  good-conduct  stripe  on  his 
arm.  He  used  to  have  two ;  but  he  lost  one  all  along 
of  St.  Patrick's  Day." 

"  That  caji't  be  your  partner,  Louisa  !  " 

"  Officers  never  have  good-conduct  stripes." 

"  Leonard,  you  ought  not  to  talk  to  common  sol- 
diers. You  've  got  a  regular  Irish  brogue,  and  you  're 
learning  all  sorts  of  ugly  words.  You  '11  grow  up 
quite  a  vulgar  little  boy,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  care.  I  like  being  Irish,  and 
I  shall  be  a  vulgar  little  boy  too,  if  I  choose.  But 
when  I  do  grow  up.  I  am  going  to  grow  into  an  owld, 
owld,  Owld  Soldier!  " 

Leonard  made  this  statement  of  his  intentions  in 
his  clearest  manner.  After  which,  having  learned 
that  the  favor  of  the  fair  is  fickleness,  he  left  the 
ladies,  and  went  to  look  for  his  Black  Puppy. 

The  Master  of  the  House,  in  arranging  for  his  visit- 
ors to  go  to  the  Field  Day,  had  said  that  Leonard 
was  not  to  be  of  the  party.  He  had  no  wish  to  en- 
courage the  child's  fancy  for  soldiers  :  and  as  Leonard 
was  invariably  restless  out  driving,  and  had  a  trick  of 
kicking  people's  shins  in  his  changes  of  mood  and 

4 


50  LOVE   ME,    LOVE   MY    DOO. 

position,  he  was  a  most  uncomfortable  element  in  a 
carriage  full  of  ladies.  But  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
he  stoutly  resisted  his  father's  decree ;  and  the  child's 
disappointment  was  so  bitter,  and  he  howled  and  wept 
himself  into  such  a  deplorable  condition,  that  the 
young  ladies  sacrificed  their  own  comfort  and  the 
crispness  of  their  new  dresses  to  his  grief,  and  peti- 
tioned the  Master  of  the  House  that  he  might  be 
allowed  to  go. 

The  Master  of  the  House  gave  in.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  yield  where  Leonard  was  concerned.  But 
the  concession  proved  only  a  prelude  to  another 
struggle.  Leonard  wanted  the  Black  Puppy  to  go 
too. 

On  this  point  the  young  ladies  presented  no  peti- 
tion. Leonard's  boots  they  had  resolved  to  endure, 
but  not  the  dog's  paws.  Lady  Jane,  too,  protested 
against  the  puppy,  and  the  matter  seemed  settled  ; 
but  at  the  last  moment,  when  all  but  Leonard  were  in 
the  carriage,  and  the  horses  chafing  to  be  off,  the 
child  made  his  appearance,  and  stood  on  the  en- 
trance-steps with  his  puppy  in  his  arms,  and  an- 
nounced, in  dignified  sorrow,  "  I  really  cannot  go  if 
my  Sweep  has  to  be  left  behind." 

With  one  consent  the  grown-up  people  turned  to 
look  at  him. 

Even  the  intoxicating  delight  that  color  gives  can 
hardly  exceed  the  satisfying  pleasure  in  which  beau- 
tiful proportions  steep  the  sense  of  sight;  and  one  is 
often  at  fault  to  find  the  law  that  has  been  so  exqui- 


1.0VE   ME,    LOVE   MY   DOG.  5 1 

sitely  fulfilled,  when  the  eye  has  no  doubt  of  its  own 
satisfaction. 

The  shallow  stone  steps,  on  the  top  of  which  Leon- 
ard stood,  and  the  old  doorway  that  framed  him,  had 
this  mysterious  grace,  and,  truth  to  say,  the  boy's 
beauty  was  a  jewel  not  unworthy  of  its  setting. 

A  holiday  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  with  collar  and 
ruffles  of  old  lace,  became  him  very  quaintly;  and  as 
he  laid  a  cheek  like  a  rose-leaf  against  the  sooty  head 
of  his  pet,  and  they  both  gazed  piteously  at  the  car 
riage,  even  Lady  Jane's  conscience  was  stifled  by 
motherly  pride.  He  was  her  only  child,  but  as  he 
had  said  of  the  Orderly,  "  a  very  splendid  sort  of 
one." 

The  Master  of  the  House  stamped  his  foot  with  an 
impatience  that  was  partly  real  and  partly,  perhaps, 
affected. 

"  Well,  get  in  somehow,  if  you  mean  to.  The 
horses  can't  wait  all  day  for  you." 

No  ruby-throated  humming-bird  could  have  darted 
more  swiftly  from  one  point  to  another  than  Leonard 
from  the  old  gray  steps  into  the  carriage.  Little  boys 
can  be  very  careful  when  they  choose,  and  he  trode 
on  no  toes  and  crumpled  no  finery  in  his  flitting. 

To  those  who  know  dogs,  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  puppy  showed  an  even  superior  discretion.  It 
bore  throttling  without  a  struggle.  Instinctively  con- 
scious of  the  alternative  of  being  shut  up  in  a  stable 
for  the  day,  and  left  there  to  bark  its  heart  out,  it 
shrank  patiently  into  Leonard's  grasp,  and  betrayed 


52  THE   BEETLE   IS   A   BEAUTY 

no  sign  of  life  except  in  the  strained  and  pleading 
anxiety  which  a  puppy's  eyes  so  often  wear. 

"  Your  dog  is  a  very  good  dog,  Leonard,  I  must 
say,"  said  Louisa  Mainwaring;  "but  he 's  very  ugly. 
I  never  saw  such  legs  !  " 

Leonard  tucked  the  lank  black  legs  under  his 
velvet  and  ruffles.  "  Oh,  he 's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  He  '11  be  very  handsome  soon.     It 's  his  ugly  mouth." 

"  I  wonder  you  did  n't  insist  on  our  bringing  Uncle 
Rupert  and  his  dog  to  complete  the  party,"  said  the 
Master  of  the  House. 

The  notion  tickled  Leonard,  and  he  laughed  so 
heartily  that  the  puppy's  legs  got  loose,  and  required  to 
be  tucked  in  afresh.  Then  both  remained  quiet  for 
several  seconds,  during  which  the  puppy  looked  as 
anxious  as  ever ;  but  Leonard's  face  wore  a  smile  of 
dreamy  content  that  doubled  its  loveliness. 

But  as  the  carriage  passed  the  windows  of  the 
library  a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  and  dispersed 
his  repose. 

Gripping  his  puppy  firmly  under  his  arm,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  —  regardless  of  other  people's  —  and  wav- 
ing his  cap  and  feather  above  his  head  he  cried  aloud, 
"Good-bye,  Uncle  Rupert!  Can  you  hear  me? 
Uncle  Rupert,  I  say!      I  am  —  Icetus  —  sortc  —  mea!" 

All  the  Camp  was  astir. 

Men  and  bugles  awoke  with  the  dawn  and  the  birds, 
and  now  the  women  and  children  of  all  ranks  were  on 
the  alert.     (Nowhere  does  so  large  and  enthusiastic  a 


IN   THE   EYES    OF   ITS   MOTHER.  53 

crowd  collect  "  to  see  the  pretty  soldiers  go  by,"  as 
in  those  places  where  pretty  soldiers  live.) 

Soon  after  gun-fire  O'Reilly  made  his  way  from 
his  own  quarters  to  those  of  the  Barrack  Master, 
opened  the  back-door  by  some  process  best  known 
to  himself,  and  had  been  busy  for  half  an  hour  in 
the  drawing-room  before  his  proceedings  woke  the 
Colonel.  They  had  been  as  noiseless  as  possible ; 
but  the  Colonel's  dressing-room  opened  into  the 
drawing-room,  his  bedroom  opened  into  that,  and 
all  the  doors  and  windows  were  open  to  court  the 
air 

"Who's  there?"  said  the  Colonel  from  his  pillow. 

" 'T  is  O'Reilly,  Sir.  I  ask  your  pardon.  Sir;  but 
I  heard  that  the  Mistress  was  not  well.  She  '11  be 
apt  to  want  the  reclining-chair,  Sir;  and  'twas  dam- 
aged in  the  unpacking.  I  got  the  screws  last  night, 
but  I  was  busy  soldiering^  till  too  late ;  so  I  come  in 
this  morning,  for  .Smith  's  no  good  at  a  job  of  the 
kind  at  all.     He  's  a  butcher  to  his  trade." 

"  Mrs,  Jones  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  thinking 
of  it,  O'Reilly." 

"  'T  is  an  honor  to  oblige  her.  Sir.  I  done  it  sound 
and  secure.  'Tis  as  safe  as  a  rock;  but  I'd  like  to 
nail  a  bit  of  canvas  on  from  the  porch  to  the  other 
side  of  the  hut,  for  shelter,  in  case  she  'd  be  sitting 
out  to  taste  the  air  and  see  the  troops  go  by.  'Twill 
not  take  me  five  minutes,  if  the  hammering  would  n't 

1  "Soldiering"  —  a  barracic  term  for  the  furbishing  up  of  accou- 
trements, etc. 


54  FAIR    LArCMS   THE    MORN, 

be  too  much  for  the  Mistress.  'T  is  a  hot  day,  Sir, 
for  certain,  till  the  guns  bring  the  rain  down." 

"  Put  it  up,  if  you  've  time." 

"  I  will,  Sir.  I  left  your  sword  and  gloves  on  the 
kitchen-table,  Sir;  and  I  told  Smith  to  water  the 
rose  before  the  sun  's  on  to  it." 

With  which  O'Reilly  adjusted  the  cushions  of  the 
invalid-chair,  and  having  nailed  up  the  bit  of  canvas 
outside,  so  as  to  form  an  impromptu  veranda,  he  ran 
back  to  his  quarters  to  put  himself  into  marching 
order  for  the  Field  Day. 

The  Field  Day  broke  into  smiles  of  sunshine  too 
early  to  be  lasting.  By  breakfast  time  the  rain  came 
down  without  waiting  for  the  guns ;  but  those  most 
concerned  took  the  changes  of  weather  cheerfully, 
as  soldiers  should.  Rain  damages  uniforms,  but  it 
lays  dust;  and  the  dust  of  the  Sandy  Slopes  was 
dust  indeed ! 

After  a  pelting  shower  the  sun  broke  forth  again, 
and  from  that  time  onwards  the  weather  was  "  Queen's 
Weather,"  and  Asholt  was  at  its  best.  The  sandy 
Camp  lay  girdled  by  a  zone  of  the  verdure  of  early 
summer,  which  passed  by  miles  of  distance,  through 
exquisite  gradations  of  many  blues,  to  meet  the  soft 
threatenings  of  the  changeable  sky.  Those  lowering 
and  yet  tender  rain-clouds  which  hover  over  the 
British  Isles,  guardian  spirits  of  that  scantly  recog- 
nized blessing  —  a  temperate  climate;  Naiads  of  the 
waters  over  the  earth,  whose  caprices  betwixt  storm 
and  sunshine  fling  such  beauty  upon  a  landscape  as 


AND   SOFT  THE   ZEPHYR   BLOWS.  55 

has  no  parallel  except  in  the  common  simile  of  a  fair 
face  quivering  between  tears  and  smiles. 

Smiles  were  in  the  ascendant  as  the  regiments 
began  to  leave  their  parade-grounds,  and  the  surface 
of  the  Camp  (usually  quiet,  even  to  dulness)  sparkled 
with  movement.  Along  every  principal  road  the 
color  and  glitter  of  marching  troops  rippled  like 
streams,  and  as  the  band  of  one  regiment  died  away 
another  broke  upon  the  excited  ear. 

At  the  outlets  of  the  Camp  eager  crowds  waited 
patiently  in  the  dusty  hedges  to  greet  favorite  regi- 
ments, or  watch  for  personal  friends  amongst  the 
troops ;  and  on  the  ways  to  the  Sandy  Slopes  every 
kind  of  vehicle,  from  a  drag  to  a  donkey-cart,  and 
every  variety  of  pedestrian,  from  an  energetic  tourist 
carrying  a  field-glass  to  a  more  admirably  energetic 
mother  carrying  a  baby,  disputed  the  highway  with 
cavalry  in  brazen  breastplates,  and  horse-artillery 
whose  gallant  show  was  drowned  in  its  own  dust. 

Lady  Jane's  visitors  had  expressed  themselves  as 
anxious  not  to  miss  anything,  and  troops  were  still 
pouring  out  of  the  Camp  when  the  Master  of  the 
House  brought  his  skittish  horses  to  where  a  "  block  " 
had  just  occurred  at  the  turn  to  the  Sandy  Slopes. 

What  the  shins  and  toes  of  the  visitors  endured 
whilst  that  knot  of  troops  of  all  arms  disentangled 
itself  and  streamed  away  in  gay  and  glittering  lines, 
could  only  have  been  concealed  by  the  supreme 
powers  of  endurance  latent  in  the  weaker  sex ;  for 
with    the    sight    of    every    fresh    regiment    Leonard 


56  STAND    FAST,   CRAIGELLACHIE  ! 

changed  his  plans  for  his  own  future  career,  and  with 
every  change  he  forgot  a  fresh  promise  to  keep  quiet, 
and  took  by  storm  that  corner  of  the  carriage  which 
for  the  moment  offered  the  best  point  of  view. 

Suddenly,  through  the  noise  and  dust,  and  above 
the  dying  away  of  conflicting  bands  into  the  distance, 
there  came  another  sound — a  sound  unlike  any  other 
—  the  skirling  of  the  pipes;  and  Lady  Jane  sprang 
up  and  put  her  arms  about  her  son,  and  bade  him 
watch  for  the  Highlanders,  and  if  Cousin  Alan 
looked  up  as  he  went  past  to  cry  "  Hurrah  for 
Bonnie  Scotland !  " 

For  this  sound  and  this  sight  —  the  bagpipes  and 
the  Highlanders  —  a  sandy-faced  Scotch  lad  on  the 
tramp  to  Southampton  had  waited  for  an  hour  past, 
frowning  and  freckling  his  face  in  the  sun,  and  exas- 
perating a  naturally  dour  temper  by  reflecting  on  the 
probable  pride  and  heartlessness  of  folk  who  wore 
such  soft  complexions  and  pretty  clothes  as  the  ladies 
and  the  little  boy  in  the  carriage  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road. 

But  when  the  skirling  of  the  pipes  cleft  the  air  his 
cold  eyes  softened  as  he  caught  sight  of  Leonard's 
face,  and  the  echo  that  he  made  to  Leonard's  cheer 
was  caught  up  by  the  good-humored  crowd,  who 
gave  the  Scotch  regiment  a  willing  ovation  as  it 
swung  proudly  by.  After  Avhich  the  carriage  moved 
on,  and  for  a  time  Leonard  sat  very  still.  He  was 
thinking  of  Cousin  Alan  and  his  comrades ;  of  the 
tossing  plumes  that  shaded  their  fierce  eyes ;   of  the 


STAND    FAST,    CRAIGELI.ACHIE  !  57 

swing  of  kilt  and  sporran  with  their  unfettered  limbs; 
of  the  rhythmic  tread  of  their  white  feet  and  the  flutter- 
ing ribbons  on  the  bagpipes ;  and  of  Alan's  hand- 
some face  looking  out  of  his  most  becoming  bravery. 

The  result  of  his  meditations  Leonard  announced 
with  his  usual  lucidity :  — 

"  I  am  Scotch,  not  Irish,  though  O'Reilly  is  the 
nicest  man  I  ever  knew.  But  I  must  tell  him  that  I 
really  cannot  grow  up  into  an  Owld  Soldier,  because 
I  mean  to  be  a  young  Highland  officer,  and  look  at 
ladies  with  my  eyes  like  this — and  carry  my  sword 
so  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 


"  Oh  that  a  man  might  know  the  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it 
comes  !  " 

Julius  Casar- 

EARS  of  liv- 
ing amongst 
soldiers  had 
1  increased, 
rather  than 
diminished, 
%5  Mrs.  Jones's 
relish  for  the 
sights  and 
sounds  of  mil- 
itary life. 

The  charm 
of  novelty  is 
proverbially 
great,  but 
it  is  not  so 
powerful  as 
that  peculiar 
spell    which 

drew  the  retired  tallow-chandler  back  to  "shop"  on 
melting-days,  and  which  guided  the  choice  of  the 
sexton  of  a   cenieterv  who    only  took    one    holiday 


there's  trouble  in  the  air.  59 

trip  in  the  course  of  seven  years,  and  then  he  went 
to  a  cemetery  at  some  distance  to  see  how  they  man- 
aged matters  there.  And,  indeed,  poor  humanity  may 
be  very  thankful  for  the  infatuation,  since  it  goes 
far  to  make  hfe  pleasant  in  the  living  to  plain  folk 
who  do  not  make  a  point  of  being  discontented. 

In  obedience  to  this  law  of  nature,  the  Barrack 
Master's  wife  did  exactly  what  O'Reilly  had  expected 
her  to  do.  As  she  could  not  drive  to  the  Field  Day, 
she  strolled  out  to  see  the  troops  go  by.  Then  the 
vigor  derived  from  breakfast  and  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  air  began  to  fail,  the  day  grew  hotter,  the 
camp  looked  dreary  and  deserted,  and,  either  from 
physical  weakness  or  from  some  untold  cause,  a 
nameless  anxiety,  a  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air,  began 
to  oppress  her. 

Wandering  out  again  to  try  and  shake  it  off,  it  was 
almost  a  relief,  like  the  solving  of  a  riddle,  to  find 
Blind  Baby  sitting  upon  his  Big  Drum,  too  low- 
spirited  to  play  the  Dead  March,  and  crying  because 
all  the  bands  had  "  gone  right  away."  Mrs.  Jones 
made  friends  with  him,  and  led  him  off  to  her  hut  for 
consolation,  and  he  was  soon  as  happy  as  ever,  stand- 
ing by  the  piano  and  beating  upon  his  basket  in 
time  to  the  tunes  she  played  for  him.  But  the  day 
and  the  hut  grew  hotter,  and  her  back  ached,  and 
the  nameless  anxiety  reasserted  itself,  and  was  not 
relieved  by  Blind  Baby's  preference  for  the  Dead 
March  over  every  other  tune  with  which  she  tried 
to  begfuile  him. 


6o  there's  trouble  in  the  air. 

And  when  he  had  gone  back  to  his  own  Parade, 
with  a  large  piece  of  cake  and  many  assurances  that 
the  bands  would  undoubtedly  return,  and  the  day 
wore  on,  and  the  hut  became  like  an  oven  (in  the  ab- 
sence of  any  appliances  to  mitigate  the  heat),  the 
BarracK  Master's  wife  came  to  the  hasty  conclusion 
that  Asholt  was  hotter  than  India,  whatever  ther- 
mometers might  say;  and,  too  weary  to  seek  for 
breezes  outside,  or  to  find  a  restful  angle  of  the  re- 
clining-chair  inside,  she  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap 
and  abandoned  herself  to  the  most  universal  remedy 
for  most  ills  —  patience.  And  Patience  was  its  own 
reward,  for  she  fell  asleep. 

Her  last  thoughts  as  she  dozed  off  were  of  her  hus- 
band and  her  son,  wishing  that  they  were  safe  home 
again,  that  she  might  assure  herself  that  it  was  not  on 
their  account  that  there  was  trouble  in  the  air.  Then 
she  dreamed  of  being  roused  by  the  Colonel's  voice 
saying,  "I  have  bad  news  to  tell  you  — "  and 
was  really  awakened  by  straining  in  her  dream  to 
discover  what  hindered  him  from  completing  his 
sentence. 

She  had  slept  some  time  —  it  was  now  afternoon, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  the  returning  bands. 
She  went  out  into  the  road  and  saw  the  Barrack  Mas- 
ter (he  was  easy  to  distinguish  at  some  distance!) 
pause  on  his  homeward  way,  and  then  she  saw  her 
son  running  to  join  his  father,  with  his  sword  under 
his  arm ;  and  they  came  on  together,  talking  as  they 
came. 


ROOSE  THE   FAIR    DAY   AT   E'EN.  6 1 

And  as  soon  as  they  got  within  earshot  she  said, 
"  Have  you  bad  news  to  tell  me?  " 

The  Colonel  ran  up  and  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm. 

"  Come  indoors,  dear  Love." 

"You  are  both  well?  " 

"  Both  of  us.     Brutally  so." 

"  Quite  well,  dear  Mother." 

Her  son  was  taking  her  other  hand  into  caressing 
care ;   there  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  bad  news. 

"  Please  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  There  has  been  an  accident  —  " 

"  To  whom?" 

"  To  your  brother's  child  ;   that  jolly  little  chap  —  " 

"Oh,  Henry!   how?" 

"  He  was  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  I  believe, 
with  a  dog  in  his  arms.  George  saw  him  when  he 
went  past  —  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  he  did  n't  fall  then.  I  fancy  some 
one  had  told  him  it  was  our  regiment.  The  dog  was 
struggling,  but  he  would  take  off  his  hat  to  us  —  " 

The  young  soldier  choked,  and  added  with  diffi- 
culty, "  I  think  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  face.  Poor 
little  cousin  !  " 

"  And  he  overbalanced  himself?  " 

"  Not  when  George  saw  him.  I  believe  it  was 
when  the  Horse  Artillery  were  going  by  at  the 
gallop.  They  say  he  got  so  much  excited,  and  the 
dog  barked,  and  they  both  fell.  Some  say  there  were 
people  moving  a  drag,  and  some  that  he  fell  under  the 


62  ROOSE    THE   FAIR  DAY  AT  E'EN. 

horse  of  a  patrol.  Anyhow,  I'm  afraid  he's  very 
much  hurt.  They  took  him  straight  home  in  an  am- 
bulance-wagon to  save  time.  Erskine  went  with  him. 
I  sent  off  a  telegram  for  them  for  a  swell  surgeon 
from  town,  and  Lady  Jane  promised  a  line  if  I  send 
over  this  evening.  O'Reilly  must  go  after  dinner  and 
wait  for  the  news." 

O'Reilly,  sitting  stiffly  amid  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  was  too  deeply  devoured 
by  anxiety  to  trouble  himself  as  to  whether  the  foot- 
man's survey  of  his  uniform  bespoke  more  interest 
or  contempt.  But  when  —  just  after  gun-fire  had 
sounded  from  the  distant  camp  —  Jemima  brought 
him  the  long-waited-for  note,  he  caught  the  girl's 
hand,  and  held  it  for  some  moments  before  he  was 
able  to  say,  "'Just  tell  me,  miss ;  is  it  good  news  or 
bad  that  I'll  be  carrying  back  in  this  bit  of  paper?" 
And  as  Jemima  only  answered  by  sobs,  he  added, 
almost  impatiently,  "Will  he  live,  dear?  Nod  your 
head  if  ye  can  do  no  more." 

Jemima  nodded,  and  the  soldier  dropped  her  hand, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  himself  one  of  those 
shakes  with  which  an  Irishman  so  often  throws  off 
care. 

"  Ah,  then,  dry  your  eyes,  darlin' ;  while  there 's 
life  there  's  hope." 

But  Jemima  sobbed  still. 

"  The  doctor  —  from  London  —  says  he  may  live  a 
good  while,  but  —  but  —  he's  to  be  a  cripple  all  his 
days !  " 


PORCELAIN   OR  BRICK  —  VET   BOTH   CLAY.        6^ 

"  Now  would  n't  I  rather  be  meeting  a  tiger  this 
evening  than  see  the  mistress's  face  when  she  gets 
that  news  !  " 

And  O'Reilly  strode  back  to  the  camp. 

Going  along  through  a  shady  part  of  the  road  in 
the  dusk,  seeing  nothing  but  the  red  glow  of  the  pipe 
with  which  he  was  consoling  himself,  the  soldier 
stumbled  against  a  lad  sleeping  on  the  grass  by  the 
roadside.  It  was  the  tramping  Scotchman,  and  as  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  the  two  Kelts  broke  into  a  fiery  dia- 
logue that  seemed  as  if  it  could  only  come  to  blows. 

It  did  not.  It  came  to  the  good-natured  soldier's 
filling  the  wayfarer's  pipe  for  him. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye !  And  maybe  the  next 
time  a  decent  man  that 's  hastening  home  on  the 
wings  of  misfortune  stumbles  against  ye,  ye  '11  not  be 
so  apt  to  take  offence." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  man  ;  I  was  barely  wakened, 
and  I  took  ye  for  one  of  .these  gay  red-coats  bluster- 
ing hame  after  a  bloodless  battle  on  the  Field  Day,  as 
they  ca'  it." 

"  Bad  luck  to  the  Field  Day !  A  darker  never 
dawned  ;  and  would  n't  a  bloodier  battle  have  spared 
a  child?" 

"Your  child?     What's  happened  to  the  bairn?" 

"  My  child  indeed  !  And  his  mother  a  lady  of  title, 
no  less." 

"What's  got  him?" 

"  Fell  out  of  the  carriage,  and  was  trampled  into  a 
cripple  for  all  the  days  of  his  life.     He  that  had  set 


64        PORCELAIN    OR   BRICK  —  YET  BOTH   CLAY. 

as  fine  a  heart  as  ever  beat  on  being  a  soldier ;  and  a 
grand  one  he  'd  have  made.  '  Sure  't  is  a  nobleman 
ye  '11  be,'  says  I.  '  'T  is  an  owld  soldier  I  mean  to 
be,  O'Reilly,'  says  he.     And  —  " 

"Fond  of  the  soldiers  —  his  mother  a  leddy? 
Man !  Had  he  a  braw  new  velvet  coat  and  the  face 
of  an  angel  on  him?" 

"  He  had  so." 

"And  I  that  thocht  they  'd  all  this  warld  could  offer 
them  !  — A  cripple?     Ech,  sirs  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  will  do  it  .  .  .  for  I  am  weak  by  nature,  and  very  timorous, 
unless  where  a  strong  sense  of  duty  holdetii  and  supporteth  me. 
There  God  acteth,  and  not  His  creature."  —  Lady  Jane  Grey. 


EONARD  was 
to  some  extent  a 
spoiled  child. 
But  it  demands 
a  great  deal  o( 
unselfish  fore- 
sight, and  of  self- 
discipline,  to  do 
more  for  a  beau- 
tiful and  loving 
pet  than  play 
with  it. 

And  if  his 
grace  and  beau- 
ty and  high  spir- 
its  had  been 
strong  tempta- 
tions to  give 
him  everything  he  desired,  and  his  own  way  above 
all,  how  much  greater  were  the  excuses  for  indulging 
every  whim  when  the  radiant  loveliness  of  health  had 
faded  to  the  wan  wistfulness  of  pain,  when  the  young 

5 


66    ■    THE  TYRANNY  OF  THE  WEAK. 

limbs  bounded  no  more,  and  when  his  boyish  hopes 
and  hereditary  ambitions  were  cut  off  by  the  shears  of 
a  destiny  that  seemed  drearier  than  death? 

As  soon  as  the  poor  child  was  able  to  be  moved 
his  parents  took  a  place  on  the  west  coast  of  Scot- 
land, and  carried  him  thither. 

The  neighborhood  of  Asholt  had  become  intoler- 
able to  them  for  some  time  to  come,  and  a  soft 
climate  and  sea-breezes  were  recommended  for  his 
general  health. 

Jemima's  dismissal  was  revoked.  Leonard  flatly, 
and  indeed  furiously,  refused  to  have  any  other  nurse. 
During  the  first  crisis  a  skilled  hospital  nurse  was  en- 
gaged, but  from  the  time  that  he  fully  recovered  con- 
sciousness he  would  receive  help  from  no  hands  but 
those  of  Jemima  and  Lady  Jane. 

Far  older  and  wiser  patients  than  he  become  ruth- 
less in  their  demands  upon  the  time  and  strength  of 
those  about  them ;  and  Leonard  did  not  spare  his 
willing  slaves  by  night  or  by  day.  It  increased  their 
difficulties  and  his  sufferings  that  the  poor  child  was 
absolutely  unaccustomed  to  prompt  obedience,  and 
disputed  the  Doctor's  orders  as  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  dispute  all  others. 

Lady  Jane's  health  became  very  much  broken,  but 
Jemima  was  fortunately  possessed  of  a  sturdy  body 
and  an  inactive  mind,  and  with  a  devotion  little  less 
than  maternal  she  gave  up  both  to  Leonard's  service. 

He  had  a  third  slave  of  his  bed-chamber  —  a  black 
one  —  the  Black  Puppy,  from  whom  he  had  resolutely 


THE   TYRANNY   OF   THE   WEAK.  6/ 

refused  to  part,  and  whom  he  insisted  upon  having 
upon  his  bed,  to  the  Doctor's  disgust.  When  months 
passed,  and  the  Black  Puppy  became  a  Black  Dog, 
large  and  cumbersome,  another  effort  was  made  to 
induce  Leonard  to  part  with  him  at  night;  but  he 
only  complained  bitterly. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  there  cannot  be  a  bed  big 
enough  for  me  and  my  dog.  I  am  an  invalid,  and  I 
ought  to  have  what  I  want." 

So  The  Sweep  remained  as  his  bedfelloAv. 

The  Sweep  also  played  the  part  of  the  last  straw 
in  the  drama  of  Jemima's  life ;  for  Leonard  would, 
allow  no  one  but  his  own  dear  nurse  to  wash  his  own 
dear  dog;  and  odd  hours,  in  which  Jemima  might 
have  snatched  a  little  rest  and  relaxation,  were  spent 
by  her  in  getting  the  big  dog's  still  lank}'  legs  into  a 
tub,  and  keeping  him  there,  and  washing  him,  and 
drying  and  combing  him  into  fit  condition  to  spring 
back  on  to  Leonard's  coverlet  when  that  imperious 
little  invalid  called  for  him. 

It  was  a  touching  manifestation  of  the  dog's  intelli- 
gence that  he  learned  with  the  utmost  care  to  avoid 
jostling  or  hurting  the  poor  suffering  little  body  of 
his  master. 

Leonard's  fourth  slave  was  his  father. 

But  the  Master  of  the  House  had  no  faculty  for 
nursing,  and  was  by  no  means  possessed  of  the  pa- 
tience needed  to  persuade  Leonard  for  his  good.  So 
he  could  only  be  with  the  child  when  he  was  fit  to  be 
read  or  played  to,  and  later  on,  when  he  was  able  to 


68  TO   EACH   HIS   SUFFERINGS. 

be  out  of  doors.  And  at  times  he  went  away  out 
of  sight  of  his  son's  sufferings,  and  tried  to  stifle 
the  remembrance  of  a  calamit)'  and  disappoint- 
ment, whose  bitterness  his  own  heart  alone  fully 
knew. 

After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  years  Leonard  sud- 
denly asked  to  be  taken  home.  He  was  tired  of  the 
shore,  and  wanted  to  see  if  The  Sweep  remembered 
the  park.  He  wanted  to  see  if  Uncle  Rupert  would 
look  surprised  to  see  him  going  about  in  a  wheel- 
chair. He  wanted  to  go  to  the  Camp  again,  now  the 
doctor  said  he  might  have  drives,  and  see  if  O'Reilly 
was  alive  still,  and  his  uncle,  and  his  aunt,  and  his 
cousin.  He  wanted  father  to  play  to  him  on  their 
own  organ,  their  very  own  organ,  and  —  no,  thank 
you  !  —  he  did  not  want  an}''  other  music  now. 

He  hated  this  nasty  place,  and  wanted  to  go  home. 
If  he  was  going  to  live  he  wanted  to  live  there,  and 
if  he  was  going  to  die  he  wanted  to  die  there,  and 
have  his  funeral  his  own  w^ay,  if  they  knew  a  General 
and  could  borrow  a  gun-carriage  and  a  band. 

He  did  n't  want  to  eat  or  to  drink,  or  to  go  to  sleep, 
or  to  take  his  medicine,  or  to  go  out  and  send  The 
Sweep  into  the  sea,  or  to  be  read  to  or  played  to ;  he 
wanted  to  go  home  —  home —  home  ! 

The  upshot  of  which  was,  that  before  his  parents 
had  time  to  put  into  words  the  idea  that  the  agonizing 
associations  of  Asholt  were  still  quite  unendurable, 
they  found  themselves  congratulating  each  other  on 
having  got  Leonard  safely  home  before  he  had  cried 


TO   EACH    HIS   SUFFERINGS.  69 

himself  into  convulsions  over  twenty- four  hours' 
delay. 

For  a  time,  being  at  home  seemed  to  revive  him. 
He  was  in  less  pain,  in  better  spirits,  had  more  appe- 
tite, and  was  out  a  great  deal  with  his  dog  and  his 
nurse.  But  he  fatigued  himself,  which  made  him 
fretful,  and  he  certainly  grew  more  imperious  every 
daw 

His  whim  was  to  be  wheeled  into  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  place,  inside  and  out,  and  to  show  them 
to  The  Sweep.  And  who  could  have  had  the  heart 
to  refuse  him  anything  in  the  face  of  that  dread  afflic- 
tion which  had  so  changed  him  amid  the  unchanged 
surroundings  of  his  old  home? 

Jemima  led  the  life  of  a  prisoner  on  the  tread-mill. 
When  she  was  n't  pushing  him  about  she  was  going 
errands  for  him,  fetching  and  carr}ing.  She  was 
"  never  off  her  feet." 

He  moved  about  a  little  now  on  crutches,  though 
he  had  not  strength  to  be  very  active  with  them,  as 
some  cripples  are.  But  they  became  ready  instru- 
ments of  his  impatience  to  thump  the  floor  with  one 
end,  and  not  infrequently  to  strike  those  who  offended 
him  with  the  other. 

His  face  was  little  less  beautiful  than  of  old,  but  it 
looked  w^m  and  weird ;  and  his  beauty  was  often 
marred  by  what  is  more  destructive  of  beauty  even 
than  sickness  —  the  pinched  lines  of  peevishness  and 
ill-temper.  He  suffered  less,  but  he  looked  more 
unhappy,   was    more    difficult    to    please,    and    more 


yo  STERN   DAUGHTER   OF  THE 

impatient  with  all  efforts  to  please  him.  But  then, 
though  nothing  is  truer  than  that  patience  is  its  own 
reward,  it  has  to  be  learned  first.  And,  \\\^X\  children, 
what  has  to  be  learned  must  be  taught. 

To  this  point  Lady  Jane's  meditations  brought  her 
one  day  as  she  paced  up  and  down  her  own  morning- 
room,  and  stood  before  the  window  which  looked 
down  where  the  elm-trees  made  long  shadows  on  the 
grass ;  for  the  sun  was  declining,  greatly  to  Jemima's 
relief,  who  -had  been  toiling  in  Leonard's  service 
through  the  hottest  hours  of  a  summer  day. 

Lady  Jane  had  a  tender  conscience,  and  just  now 
it  was  a  very  uneasy  one.  She  was  one  of  those 
somewhat  rare  souls  who  are  by  nature  absolutely 
true.  Not  so  much  Avith  elaborate  avoidance  of 
lying,  or  an  aggressive  candor,  as  straight-minded, 
single-eyed,  clear-headed,  and  pure-hearted ;  a  soul 
to  which  the  truth  and  reality  of  things,  and  the 
facing  of  things,  came  as  naturally  as  the  sham  of 
them  and  the  blinking  of  them  comes  to  others. 

When  such  a  nature  has  strong  affections  it  is  no 
light  matter  if  love  and  duty  come  into  conflict. 
They  were  in  conflict  now,  and  the  mother's  heart 
was  pierced  with  a  two-edged  sword.  For  if  she 
truly  believed  what  she  believed,  her  duty  towards 
Leonard  was  not  only  that  of  a  tender  mother  to  a 
suffering  child,  but  the  duty  of  one  soul  to  another 
soul,  whose  responsibilities  no  man  might  deliver 
him  from,  nor  make  agreement  unto  GOD  that  he 
should  be  quit  of  them. 


VOICE   OF   GOD!   O   DUTY!  7 1 

And  if  the  disabling  of  his  body  did  not  stop  the 
developing,  one  way  or  another,  of  his  mind ;  if  to 
learn  fortitude  and  patience  under  his  pains  was  not 
only  his  highest  duty  but  his  best  chance  of  happi- 
ness; then,  if  she  failed  to  teach  him  these,  of  what 
profit  was  it  that  she  would  willingly  have  endured 
all  his  sufferings  ten  times  over  that  life  might  be  all 
sunshine  for  him? 

And  deep  down  in  her  truthful  soul  another 
thought  rankled.  No  one  but  herself  knew  how 
the  pride  of  her  heart  had  been  stirred  by  Leonard's 
love  for  soldiers,  his  brave  ambitions,  the  high  spirit 
and  heroic  instincts  which  he  inherited  from  a  long 
line  of  gallant  men  and  noble  women.  Had  her 
pride  been  a  sham?  Did  she  only  care  for  the  cour- 
age of  the  battle-field  ?  Was  she  willing  that  her  son 
should  be  a  coward,  because  it  was  not  the  trumpet's 
sound  that  summoned  him  to  fortitude?  She  had 
strung  her  heart  to  the  thought  that,  like  many  a 
mother  of  her  race,  she  might  live  to  gird  on  his 
sword;   should  she  fail  to  help  him  to  carry  his  cross? 

At  this  point  a  cry  came  from  below  the  window, 
and  looking  out  she  saw  Leonard,  beside  himself 
with  passion,  raining  blows  like  hail  with  his  crutch 
upon  poor  Jemima;  The  Sweep  watching  matters 
nervously  from  under  a  garden  seat. 

Leonard  had  been  irritable  all  day,  and  this  was 
the  second  serious  outbreak.  The  first  had  sent  the 
Master  of  the  House  to  town  with  a  deeply-knitted 
brow. 


^2  HE   THAT   THOLES,    O'ERCOMES. 

Vexed  at  being  thwarted  in  some  slight  matter, 
when  he  was  sitting  in  his  wheel-chair  by  the  side  of 
his  father  in  the  library,  he  had  seized  a  sheaf  of 
papers  tied  together  with  amber-colored  ribbon,  and 
had  torn  them  to  shreds.  It  was  a  fair  copy  of  the 
first  two  cantos  of  The  Soul's  Satiety,  a  poem  on  which 
the  Master  of  the  House  had  been  engaged  for  some 
years.  He  had  not  touched  it  in  Scotland,  and  was 
now  beginning  to  work  at  it  again.  He  could  not 
scold  his  cripple  child,  but  he  had  gone  up  to  London 
in  a  far  from  comfortable  mood. 

And  now  Leonard  was  banging  poor  Jemima  with 
his  crutches !  Lady  Jane  felt  that  her  conscience 
had  not  roused  her  an  hour  too  soon. 

The  Master  of  the  House  dined  in  town,  and 
Leonard  had  tea  with  his  mother  in  her  very  own 
room  ;   and  The  Sweep  had  tea  there  too. 

And  when  the  old  elms  looked  black  against  the 
primrose-colored  sky,  and  it  had  been  Leonard's 
bed-time  for  half  an  hour  past,  the  three  were  to- 
gether still. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Jemima,  I  am  very  sorry,  and 
I  '11  never  do  so  any  more.  I  did  n't  want  to  beg  your 
pardon  before,  because  I  was  naughty,  and  because 
you  trode  on  my  Sweep's  foot.  But  I  beg  your  par- 
don now,  because  I  am  good  —  at  least  I  am  better, 
and  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  good." 

Leonard's  voice  was  as  clear  as  ever,  and  his  man- 
ner as  direct  and  forcible.     Thus  he  contrived  to  say 


HE   THAT   THOLES,    O'ERCOMES.  73 

SO  much   before  Jemima  burst  in   (she  was  putting 
him  to  bedj. 

"  My  lamb  !  my  pretty  !  You  're  always  good  —  " 
"Don't  tell  stories,  Jemima;  and  please  don't  con- 
tradict me,  for  it  makes  me  cross ;  and  if  I  am  cross 
I  can't  be  good ;  and  if  I  am  not  good  all  to-morrow 
I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  downstairs  after  dinner. 
And  there  's  a  V.  C.  coming  to  dinner,  and  I  do  want 
to  see  him  more  than  I  want  anything  else  in  all  the 
world." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  What  is  there  in  the  world  to  distinguish  virtues  from  dishonor, 
or  that  can  make  anything  rewardable,  but  the  labor  and  the  danger, 
the  pain  and  the  difficulty  ? "  — Jeremy  Taylor. 


HE  V.  C.  did 

not  look  like 
a  bloodthirsty- 
warrior.  He 
had  a  smooth, 
oval,  olivart 
face,  and 
dreamy  eyes. 
He  was  not 
very  big,  and 
he  was  abso- 
lutely unpre- 
tending. He 
was  a  young 
man,  and  only 
by  the  cour- 
tesy of  his 
manners  es- 
caped the  im- 
putation of  being  a  shy  young  man. 

Before  the  campaign  in  which  he  won  his  cross  he 
was  most  distinctively  known  in  society  as  having  a 


THE   COURAGE   TO   BEAR,  75 

very  beautiful  voice  and  a  very  charming-  way  of 
singing,  and  yet  as  giving  himself  no  airs  on  the  sub- 
ject of  an  accomplishment  which  makes  some  men 
almost  intolerable  by  their  fellow-men. 

He  was  a  favorite  with  ladies  on  several  accounts, 
large  and  small.  Among  the  latter  was  his  fastidious 
choice  in  the  words  of  the  songs  he  sang,  and  sang 
with  a  rare  fineness  of  enunciation. 

It  is  not  always  safe  to  believe  that  a  singer  means 
what  he  sings ;  but  if  he  sing  very  noble  words  with 
justness  and  felicity,  the  ear  rarely  refuses  to  flatter 
itself  that  it  is  learning  some  of  the  secrets  of  a  noble 
heart. 

Upon  a  silence  that  could  be  felt  the  last  notes  ol 
such  a  song  had  just  fallen.  The  V.  C.'s  lips  were 
closed,  and  those  of  the  Master  of  the  House  (who 
had  been  accompanying  him)  were  still  parted  with 
a  smile  of  approval,  when  the  wheels  of  his  chair  and 
some  little  fuss  at  the  drawing-room  door  announced 
that  Leonard  had  come  to  claim  his  mother's  promise. 
And  when  Lady  Jane  rose  and  went  to  meet  him,  the 
V.  C.  followed  her. 

"There  is  my  boy,  of  whom  I  told  you.  Leonard, 
this  is  the  gentleman  you  have  wished  so  much  to 
see." 

The  V.  C,  who  sang  so  easily,  was  not  a  ready 
speaker,  and  the  sight  of  Leonard  took  him  by  sur- 
prise, and  kept  him  silent.  He  had  been  prepared 
to  pity  and  be  good-natured  to  a  lame  child  who  had 
a  whim  to  see  him  ;   but  not  for  this  vision  of  rare 


^6  AND   THE   COURAGE   TO   DARE 

beauty,  beautifully  dressed,  with  crippled  limbs  lapped 
in  Eastern  embroideries  by  his  color-loving  father,  and 
whose  wan  face  and  wonderful  eyes  were  lambent  with 
an  intelligence  so  eager  and  so  wistful,  that  the  creat- 
ure looked  less  like  a  morsel  of  suffering  humanity 
than  like  a  soul  fretted  by  the  brief  detention  of  an 
all-but-broken  chain, 

"  How  do  you  do,  V.  C?  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you.  I  wanted  to  see  you  more  than  anything  in  the 
world.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  seeing  me  because  I 
have  been  a  coward,  for  I  mean  to  be  brave  now ; 
and  that  is  why  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much,  because 
you  are  such  a  very  brave  man.  The  reason  I  was 
a  coward  was  partly  with  being  so  cross  when  my 
back  hurts,  but  particularly  with  hitting  Jemima  with 
my  crutches,  for  no  one  but  a  coward  strikes  a  woman. 
She  trode  on  my  dog's  toes.  This  is  my  dog.  Please 
pat  him  ;  he  would  like  to  be  patted  by  a  V.  C.  He 
is  called  The  Sweep  because  he  is  black.  He  lives 
with  me  all  along.  I  have  hit  him,  but  I  hope  I  shall 
not  be  naughty  again  any  more.  I  wanted  to  grow 
up  into  a  brave  soldier,  but  I  don't  think,  perhaps, 
that  I  ever  can  now ;  but  mother  says  I  can  be  a 
brave  cripple.  I  would  rather  be  a  brave  soldier,  but 
I  'm  going  to  try  to  be  a  brave  cripple.  Jemima  says 
there  's  no  saying  what  you  can  do  till  you  try.  Please 
show  me  your  Victoria  Cross." 

"  It 's  on  my  tunic,  and  that 's  in  my  quarters  in 
Camp.     I  'm  so  sorry." 

"So  am  I.     I  knew  }ou  li\ed  in  Camp      I  like  the 


ARE   REALLY   ONE   AND   THE   SAME.  'J'J 

Camp,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  your  hut. 
Do  you  know  my  uncle,  Colonel  Jones?  Do  you 
know  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Jones?  And  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Jones?  Do  you  know  a  very  nice  Irishman,  with 
one  good-conduct  stripe,  called  O'Reilly?  Do  you 
know  my  cousin  Alan  in  the  Highlanders?  But  I 
believe  he  has  gone  away.  I  have  so  many  things  I 
want  to  ask  you,  and  oh!- — those  ladies  are  coming 
after  us  !  They  want  to  take  }'ou  away.  Look  at 
that  ugly  old  thing  with  a  hook-nose  and  an  eye-glass, 
and  a  lace  shawl  and  a  green  dress;  she's  just  like 
the  Poll  Parrot  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  But  she  's 
looking  at  you.  Mother  !  Mother  dear  !  Don't  let 
them  take  him  away.  You  did  promise  me,  you 
know  you  did,  that  if  I  was  good  all  to-day  I  should 
talk  to  the  V.  C.  I  can't  talk  to  him  if  I  can't  have 
him  all  to  myself.  Do  let  us  go  into  the  library,  and 
be  all  to  ourselves.  Do  keep  those  women  away, 
particularly  the  Poll  Parrot.  Oh,  I  hope  I  sha'n't  be 
naughty!  I  do  feel  so  impatient!  I  was  good,  you 
know  I  was.  Why  does  n't  James  come  and  show 
my  friend  into  the  library,  and  carry  me  out  of  my 
chair?" 

"  Let  me  carry  you,  little  friend,  and  we  '11  run 
away  together,  and  the  company  will  say,  '  There 
goes  a  V.  C.  running  away  from  a  Poll  Parrot  in  a 
lace  shawl !  '  " 

"Ha!  ha!  You  are  nice  and  funny.  But  ca7i 
you  carry  me?  Take  off  this  thing!  Did  you  ever 
carry  anybody  that  had  been  hurt?" 


78  COURAGE   TO   BEAR   AND    DARE. 

"  Yes,  several  people  —  much  bigger  than  you." 

"Men?" 

"Men." 

"  Men  hurt  like  me,  or  wounded  in  battle?  " 

"Wounded  in  battle." 

"  Poor  things  !      Did  they  die  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them." 

"  I  shall  die  pretty  soon,  I  beheve.  I  meant 
to  die  young,  but  more  grown-up  than  this,  and 
in  battle.  About  your  age,  I  think.  How  old  are 
you?  " 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-five  in  October." 

"That's  rather  old.  I  meant  about  Uncle  Rupert's 
age.  He  died  in  battle.  He  was  seventeen.  You 
carry  very  comfortably.  Now  we  're  safe  !  Put  me 
on  the  yellow  sofa,  please.  I  want  all  the  cushions, 
because  of  my  back.  It 's  because  of  my  back,  you 
know,  that  I  can't  grow  up  into  a  soldier.  I  don't 
think  I  possibly  can.  Soldiers  do  have  to  have  such 
very  straight  backs,  and  Jemima  thinks  mine  will  never 
be  straight  again  '  on  this  side  the  grave.'  So  I  've  got 
to  try  and  be  brave  as  I  am  ;  and  that 's  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  Do  you  mind  my  talking  rather  more 
than  you  ?  I  have  so  very  much  to  say,  and  I  *ve 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  because  of  its  being  long 
past  my  bed-time,  and  a  good  lot  of  that  has  gone." 

"  Please  talk,  and  let  me  listen." 

"  Thank  you.  Pat  The  Sweep  again,  please.  He 
thinks  we  're  neglecting  him.  That 's  why  he  gets  up 
and  knocks  you  with  his  head." 


'T  IS   GOOD   FOR   MEN   TO  LOVE  79 

"  Poor  Sweep  !     Good  old  dog  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Now  should  you  think  that  if  I  am 
very  good,  and  not  cross  about  a  lot  of  pain  in  my 
back  and  my  head — really  a  good  lot  —  that  that 
would  count  up  to  be  as  brave  as  having  one  wound 
if  I  'd  been  a  soldier?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Mother  says  it  would,  and  I  think  it  might.  Not 
a  very  big  wound,  of  course,  but  a  poke  with  a  spear, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  It  is  very  bad  sometimes, 
particularly  when  it  keeps  you  awake  at  night." 

"  My  little  friend,  that  would  count  for  lying  out  all 
night  wounded  on  the  field  when  the  battle  's  over. 
Soldiers  are  not  always  fighting." 

"  Did  you  ever  lie  out  for  a  night  on  a  battle- 
field?" 

"  Yes,  once. 

"  Did  the  night  seem  very  long?  " 

"  Very  long ;   and  we  were  very  thirsty." 

"  So  am  I  sometimes,  but  I  have  barley-water  and 
lemons  by  my  bed,  and  jelly,  and  lots  of  things. 
You  'd  no  barley-water,  had  you  ?  " 

"No." 

"Nothing?" 

"  Nothing  till  the  rain  fell,  then  we  sucked  our 
clothes." 

"  It  would  take  a  lot  of  my  bad  nights  to  count  up 
to  that !  But  I  think  when  I  'm  ill  in  bed  I  might 
count  that  like  being  a  soldier  in  hospital?" 

"  Of  course." 


8o         THEIR    PRESENT   PAINS,   UPON   EXAMPLE; 

"I  thought  —  no  matter  how  good  I  got  to  be  — 
nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  be  as  brave  as  a  real 
battle,  leading  your  men  on  and  fighting  for  your 
country,  though  you  know  you  may  be  killed  any 
minute.  But  Mother  says,  if  I  could  try  very  hard, 
and  think  of  poor  Jemima  as  well  as  myself,  and  keep 
brave  in  spite  of  feeling  miserable,  that  then  (particu- 
larly as  I  sha'n't  be  very  long  before  I  do  die)  it  would 
be  as  good  as  if  I  'd  lived  to  be  as  old  as  Uncle  Rupert, 
and  fought  bravely  when  the  battle  was  against  me, 
and  cheered  on  my  men,  though  I  knew  I  could 
never  come  out  of  it  alive.  Do  you  think  it  could 
count  up  to  that?  Do  you?  Oh,  do  answer  me,  and 
don't  stroke  my  head  !  I  get  so  impatient.  You  've 
been  in  battles  —  do  you?  " 

"I  do,  I  do." 

"  You're  a  V.  C,  and  you  ought  to  know.  I  sup- 
pose nothing  —  not  even  if  I  could  be  good  always, 
from  this  minute  right  away  till  I  die  —  nothing  could 
ever  count  up  to  the  courage  of  a  V.  C?" 

"  God  knows  it  could,  a  thousand  times 'over!  " 

"  Where  are  you  going?  Please  don't  go.  Look 
at  me.  They  're  not  going  to  chop  the  Queen's  head 
off,  are  they?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !     What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"Why,  because —  Look  at  me  again.  Ah  !  you've 
winked  it  away,  but  your  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  and 
the  only  other  brave  man  I  ever  heard  of  crying  was 
Uncle  Rupert,  and  that  was  because  he  knew  they 
were  going  to  chop  the  poor  King's  head  off." 


so   IS   THE   SPIRIT   EASED.  8 1 

"  That  was  enough  to  make  anybody  cr}'." 

"  I  know  it  was.  But  do  you  know  now,  when  1  'm 
wheehng  about  in  my  chair  and  playing  with  him, 
and  he  looks  at  me  wherever  I  go ;  sometimes  for  a 
bit  I  forget  about  the  King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry 
for  me.  Sorry,  I  mean,  that  I  can't  jump  about,  aiYd 
creep  under  the  table.  Under  the  table  was  the  only 
place  where  I  could  get  out  of  the  sight  of  his  eyes. 
Oh,  dear  !     There  's  Jemima." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  be  good  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  I  'm  going  to  do  lessons 
again.  I  did  a  little  French  this  morning  —  a  story. 
Mother  did  most  of  it ;  but  I  know  what  the  French 
officer  called  the  poor  old  French  soldier  when  he 
went  to  see  him  in  a  hospital." 

"What?" 

"■  Mon  brave.  That  means  'my  brave  fellow.'  A 
nice  name,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Very  nice.     Here  's  Jemima." 

"I'm  coming,  Jemima.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
naughty ;  but  you  may  go  back  to  the  chair,  for  this 
officer  will  carry  me.  He  carries  so  comfortably. 
Come  along,  my  Sweep.  Thank  you  so  much.  You 
have  put  me  in  beautifully.  Kiss  me,  please. 
Good  night,  V.  C." 

"  Good  night,  mon  brave.'' 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


"  'I  am  a  man  of  no  strength  at  all  of  body,  nor  yet  of  mind ;  but 
would,  if  I  could,  though  I  can  but  crawl,  spend  my  life  in  the  pil- 
grims' way.  When  I  came  at  the  gate  that  is  at  the  head  of  the  way, 
the  lord  of  that  place  did  entertain  me  freely,  .  .  .  gave  me  such 
things  that  were  necessary  for  my  journey,  and  bid  me  hope  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  Other  brunts  I  also  look  for  ;  but  this  I  have  resolved  on, 
to  wit,  to  run  when  I  can,  to  go  when  I  cannot  run,  and  to  creep  when 
I  cannot  go.  As  to  the  main,  I  thank  Him  that  loves  me,  I  am  fixed  ; 
my  way  is  before  me,  my  mind  is  beyond  the  river  that  has  no  bridge, 

though  I  am  as  you  see.' 

"  And  behold  —  Mr.  Ready-to- 
halt  came  by  with  his  crutches  in 
his  hand,  and  he  was  also  going  on 
Pilgrimage." 

Bunyaii's  Pilgrini's  Progress. 


ND  if  we  tie  it  with  the 
amber-colored  ribbon, 
then  every  time  I  have  it 
out  to  put  in  a  new  Poor 
Thing,  I  shall  remember 
how  very  naughty  I  wa.s, 
and  how  I  spoilt  your 
poetry." 

"  Then  we  '11  certainly 
tie  it  with  something  else," 
said  the  Master  of  the 
House,  and  he  jerked 
away  the  ribbon  with  a 
gesture  as  decisive  as  hjs 
words.  "  Let  bygones  be 
If  /  forget  it,  yo7i  need  n't  remember  it !  " 


bygones. 


THE   BOOK    OF   POOR   THINGS.  83 

"  Oh,  but,  indeed,  I  ought  to  remember  it ;  and  I  do 
think  I  better  had — to  remind  myself  never,  never  to 
be  so  naughty  again  !  " 

*'  Your  mother's  own  son  !  "  muttered  the  Master  of 
the  House  ;  and  he  added  aloud  :  "Well,  I  forbid  you 
to  remember  't — so  there!  It'll  be  naughty  if  you 
do.  Here  's  some  red  ribbon.  That  should  please 
you,  as  you  're  so  fond  of  soldiers." 

Leonard  and  his  father  were  seated  side  by  side  at 
a  table  in  the  library.     The  dog  lay  at  their  feet. 

They  were  very  busy ;  the  Master  of  the  House 
working  under  Leonard's  direction,  who,  issuing  his 
orders  from  his  wheel-chair,  was  so  full  of  anxiety  and 
importance,  that  when  Lady  Jane  opened  the  library- 
door  he  knitted  his  brow  and  put  up  one  thin  little 
hand,  in  a  comically  old-fashioned  manner,  to  dep- 
recate interruption. 

"Don't  make  any  disturbance,  Mother  dear,  if  you 
please.     Father  and  I  are  very  much  engaged." 

"Don't  you  think,  Len,  it  would  be  kind  to  let 
poor  Mother  see  what  we  are  doing,  and  tell  her 
about  it?  " 

Leonard  pondered  an  instant. 

"  Well  —  I  don't  mind." 

Then,  as  his  mother's  arm  came  round  him,  he 
added,  impetuously: 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to.  Yoii  can  show.  Father 
dear,  and  /'// do  all  the  explaining." 

The  Master  of  the  House  displayed  some  sheets  of 
paper,  tied  with   ribbon,  which    already  contained  a 


84  THE   BOOK   OF   POOR   THINGS. 

good  deal  of  his  handiwork,  including  a  finely-illumi- 
nated capital  L  on  the  title-page. 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  Book  of  Poor  Things, 
Mother  dear.  We  're  doing  it  in  bits  first ;  then  it 
will  be  bound.  It 's  a  collection  —  a  collection  of 
Poor  Things  who've  been  hurt,  like  me;  or  blind, 
like  the  organ-tuner;  or  had  their  heads  —  no,  not 
their  heads,  they  could  n't  go  on  doing  things  after 
that  —  had  their  legs  or  their  arms  chopped  off  in 
battle,  and  are  very  good  and  brave  about  it,  and 
manage  very,  very  nearly  as  well  as  people  who  have 
got  nothing  the  matter  with  them.  Father  does  n't 
think  Poor  Things  is  a  good  name.  He  wanted  to 
call  it  Masters  of  Fate,  because  of  some  poetry. 
What  was  it.  Father?  " 

"  '  Man  is  man  and  Master  of  his  Fate,'  "  quoted 
the  Master  of  the  House. 

"  Yes,  that 's  it.  But  I  don't  understand  it  so  well 
as  Poor  Things.  They  are  Poor  Things,  you  know, 
and  of  course  we  shall  only  put  in  brave  Poor 
Things :  not  cowardly  Poor  Things.  It  was  all  my 
idea,  only  Father  is  doing  the  ruling,  and  printing, 
and  illuminating  for  me.  I  thought  of  it  when  the 
Organ-tuner  was  here." 

"The  Organ-tuner?" 

"  Yes,  I  heard  the  organ,  and  I  made  James  carry 
me  in,  and  put  me  in  the  arm-chair  close  to  the  organ. 
And  the  tuner  was  tuning,  and  he  looked  round,  and 
James  said,  '  It 's  the  young  gentleman,'  and  the 
Tuner  said,  '  Good  morning,  Sir,'  and  I  said,   '  Good 


SWEET   ARE   THE   USES    OF   ADVERSITY.  85 

morning,  Tuner;  go  on  tuning,  please,  for  I  want  to 
see  you  do  it.'  And  he  went  on ;  and  he  dropped 
a  tin  thing,  like  a  big  extinguisher,  on  to  the  floor ; 
and  he  got  down  to  look  for  it,  and  he  felt  about  in 
such  a  funny  way  that  I  burst  out  laughing.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  be  rude;  I  couldn't  help  it.  And  I  said, 
'  Can't  you  see  it?  It 's  just  under  the  table.'  And 
he  said,  '  I  can't  see  anything,  Sir;  I  'm  stone  blind.' 
And  he  said,  perhaps  I  would  be  kind  enough  to 
give  it  him.  And  I  said  I  was  very  sorry,  but  I 
had  n't  got  my  crutches,  and  so  I  could  n't  get  out  of 
my  chair  without  some  one  to  help  me.  And  he 
was  so  awfully  sorry  for  me,  you  can't  think !  He 
said  he  did  n't  know  I  was  more  afflicted  than  he  was ; 
but  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him,  for  I  've  tried  shutting 
my  eyes;  and  you  can  bear  it  just  a  minute,  but  then 
you  imist  open  them  to  see  again.  And  I  said,  *  How 
can  you  do  anything  when  you  see  nothing  but  black- 
ness all  along?  '  And  he  says  he  can  do  well  enough 
as  long  as  he  's  spared  the  use  of  his  limbs  to  earn 
his  own  livelihood.  And  I  said,  '  Are  there  any  more 
blind  men,  do  you  think,  that  earn  their  own  liveli- 
hood? I  w^ish  I  could  earn  mine!'  And  he  said, 
'  There  are  a  good  many  blind  tuners,  Sir.'  And  1 
said,  '  Go  on  tuning,  please :  I  like  to  hear  you  do  it.' 
And  he  went  on,  and  I  did  like  him  so  much.  Do 
you  know  the  blind  tuner.  Mother  dear?  And  don't 
you  like  him  very  much?'  I  think  he  is  just  w^hat 
you  think  very  good,  and  I  think  V.C.  would  think  it 
nearly  as  brave  as  a  battle  to  be  afflicted  and  go  on 


86  SWEET   ARE   THE   USES    OF   ADVERSITY. 

earning  your  own  livelihood  when  you  can  see  nothing 
but  blackness  all  along.     Poor  man  !  " 

"  I  do  think  it  very  good  of  him,  my  darling,  and 
very  brave." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  And  then  I  thought  perhaps 
there  arc  lots  of  brave  afflicted  people  —  poor  things  ! 
and  perhaps  there  never  was  anybody  but  me  who 
was  n't.  And  I  wished  I  knew  their  names,  and  I 
asked  the  Tuner  his  name,  and  he  told  me.  And 
then  I  thought  of  my  book,  for  a  good  idea  —  a  col- 
lection, you  know.  And  I  thought  perhaps,  by 
degrees,  I  might  collect  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
Poor  Things,  all  brave.  And  so  I  am  making  Father 
rule  it  like  his  Diary,  and  we  've  got  the  Tuner's  name 
down  for  the  First  of  January;  and  if  you  can  think 
of  anybody  else  you  must  tell  me,  and  if  I  think 
they're  afflicted  enough  and  brave  enough,  I'll  put 
them  in.  But  I  shall  have  to  be  rather  particu- 
lar, for  we  don't  want  to  fill  up  too  fast.  Now, 
Father,  I  've  done  the  explaining,  so  you  can  show 
your  part.  Look,  Mother,  has  n't  -he  ruled  it 
well?  There's  only  one  tiny  mess,  and  it  was  The 
Sweep  shaking  the  table  with  getting  up  to  be 
patted." 

"  He  has  ruled  it  beautifully.  But  what  a  hand- 
some L !  " 

"  Oh,  I  forget !  Wait  a  minute.  Father ;  the  ex- 
plaining is  n't  quite  finished.  What  do  you  think 
that  L  stands  for.  Mother  dear?" 

"  For  Leonard,  I  suppose." 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  87 

"  No,  no  !  What  fun  !  You  're  quite  wrong. 
Guess  again." 

"  Is  it  not  the  Tuner's  name?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  He  's  in  the  first  of  January — I  told  you 
so.  And  in  plain  printing.  Father  really  could  n't 
illuminate  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  poor  things  !  " 

"  Of  course  he  could  n't.  It  was  silly  of  me  to 
think  so." 

"  Do  you  give  it  up?  " 

"  I  must.     I  cannot  guess." 

"It's  the  beginning  of  ^ Lcetiis  sorte  mea.'  Ah, 
you  know  now !  You  ought  to  have  guessed  without 
my  telling  you.  Do  you  remember?  I  remember, 
and  I  mean  to  remember.  I  told  Jemima  that  very 
night.  I  said,  '  It  means  Happy  with  my  fate,  and 
in  our  family  we  have  to  be  happy  with  it,  whatever 
sort  of  a  one  it  is.'  For  you  told  me  so.  And  I  told 
the  Tuner,  and  he  liked  hearing  about  it  very  much. 
And  then  he  went  on  tuning,  and  he  smiled  so  when 
he  was  listening  to  the  notes,  I  thought  he  looked 
very  happy ;  so  I  asked  him,  and  he  said.  Yes,  he  was 
always  happy  when  he  was  meddling  with  a  musical 
instrument.  But  I  thought,  most  likely  all  brave 
poor  things  are  happy  with  their  fate,  even  if  they 
can't  tune;  and  I  asked  Father,  and  he  said,  'Yes,' 
and  so  we  are  putting  it  into  my  collection  —  partly 
for  that,  and  partly  when  the  coat-of-arms  is  done, 
to  show  that  the  book  belongs  to  me.  Now,  Father 
dear,  the  explaining  is  really  quite  finished  this  time, 
and  you  may  do  all  the  rest  of  the  show-ofif  yourself !  " 


CHAPTER   IX. 


"  St.  George  !   a  stirring  life  they  lead, 
That  have  such  neighbors  near." 

Marmion. 

H,  Jemima! 
Jemima!  I 
know  )'ou  are 
very  kind,  and 
I  do  mean  not 
to  be  impa- 
tient; but 
either  you  're 
telling  stories 
or  you're 
talking  non- 
sense, and 
that 's  a  fact. 
How  can  you 
say  that  that 
blue  stuff  is 
a  b  e  a  u  t  i  f  u  1 
match,  and 
will  wash  the  exact  color,  and  that  you  're  sure  I 
shall  like  it  when  it 's  made  up  with  a  cord  and  tas- 
sels, when  it 's  not  the  blue  I  want,  and  when  you 
know  the  men  in  hospital  have  n't  any  tassels  to  their 


A   BLUE   DRESSING-GOWN.  89 

dressing-gowns  at  all !  You  're  as  bad  as  that  horrid 
shopman  who  made  me  so  angry.  If  I  had  not  been 
obliged  to  be  good,  I  should  have  liked  to  hit  him 
hard  with  my  crutch,  when  he  kept  on  saying  he 
knew  I  should  prefer  a  shawl-pattern  lined  with  crim- 
son, if  I  would  let  him  send  one.  Oh,  here  comes 
Father  !  Now,  that 's  right ;  he  '11  know.  Father 
dear,  is  this  blue  pattern  the  same  color  as  that?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     But  what 's  the  matter,  my  child?" 

"  It  "s  about  my  dressing-gown ;  and  I  do  get  so 
tired  about  it,  because  people  will  talk  nonsense,  and 
won't  speak  the  truth,  and  won't  believe  I  know  what 
I  want  myself.  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  want.  Do 
you  know  the  Hospital  Lines?  " 

"  In  the  Camp?     Yes." 

"  And  you  've  seen  all  the  invalids  walking  about 
in  blue  dressing-gowns  and  little  red  ties?  " 

"  Yes.     Charming  bits  of  color." 

"Hurrah!  that's  just  it!  Now,  Father  dear,  if 
you  wanted  a  dressing-gown  exactly  like  that  — 
would  you   have   one   made   of  this?" 

"  Not  if  I  knew  it !  Crude,  coarse,  staring  —  please 
don't  wave  it  in  front  of  my  eyes,  unless  you  want  to 
make  me  feel  like  a  bull  with  a  red  rag  before  him  1  " 

"  Oh,  Father  dear,  you  are  sensible  !  (Jemima, 
throw  this  pattern  away,  please!)  But  you'd  have 
felt  far  worse  if  you  'd  seen  the  shawl-pattern  lined 
with  crimson.  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  have  been  a 
bull  that  was  n't  obliged  to  be  lcBt7is  for  half  a  minute, 
to  give  that  shopman  just  one  toss  !      But  I  believe 


90  A   BLUE   DRESSING-GOWN. 

the  best  way  to  do  will  be  as  O'Reilly  says  —  get 
Uncle  Henry  to  buy  me  a  real  one  out  of  store,  and 
have  it  made  smaller  for  me.  And  I  should  like  it 
'  out  of  store.'  " 

From  this  conversation  it  will  be  seen  that  Leonard's 
military  bias  knew  no  change.  Had  it  been  less 
strong  it  could  only  have  served  to  intensify  the  pain 
of  the  heartbreaking  associations  which  anything 
connected  with  the  troops  now  natural!}'  raised  in  his 
parents'  minds.  But  it  was  a  sore  subject  that  fairly 
healed  itself. 

The  Camp  had  proved  a  more  cruel  neighbor  than 
the  Master  of  the  House  had  ever  imagined  in  his 
forebodings ;  but  it  also  proved  a  friend.  For  if  the 
high,  ambitious  spirit,  the  ardent  imagination,  the 
vigorous  will,  which  fired  the  boy's  fancy  for  soldiers 
and  soldier-life,  had  thus  led  to  his  calamity,  they 
found  in  that  sympathy  with  men  of  hardihood  and 
lives  of  discipline,  not  only  an  interest  that  never 
failed  and  that  lifted  the  sufferer  out  of  himself,  but  a 
constant  incentive  to  those  virtues  of  courage  and 
patience  for  which  he  struggled  with  touching  con- 
scientiousness. 

Then,  without  disparagement  to  the  earnestness  of 
his  efforts  to  be  good,  it  will  be  well  believed  that  his 
parents  did  their  best  to  make  goodness  easy  to  him. 
His  vigorous  individuality  still  swayed  the  plans  of 
the  household,  and  these  came  to  be  regulated  by 
those  of  the  Camp  to  a  degree  which  half  annoyed 
and  half  amused  its  Master. 


MILITARY   MANCEUVRES.  9 1 

The  Asholt  Gazette  was  delivered  as  regularly  as 
the  Times ;  but  on  special  occasions,  the  arrange- 
ments for  which  were  only  known  the  night  before, 
O'Reilly,  or  some  other  Orderly,  might  be  seen  wend- 
ing his  way  up  the  Elm  Avenue  by  breakfast  time, 
"with  Colonel  Jones'  compliments,  and  the  Orders  of 
the  Day  for  the  young  gentleman."  And  so  many 
were  the  military  displays  at  which  Leonard  contrived 
to  be  present,  that  the  associations  of  pleasure  and 
alleviation  with  Parades  and  Manoeuvres  came  at  last 
almost  to  blot  out  the  associations  of  pain  connected 
with  that  fatal  Field  Day. 

He  drove  about  a  great  deal,  either  among  air- 
cushions  in  the  big  carriage  or  in  a  sort  of  perambu^ 
lator  of  his  own,  which  was  all  too  easily  pushed  by 
any  one,  and  by  the  side  of  which  The  Sweep  -walked 
slowly  and  contentedly,  stopping  when  Leonard 
stopped,  wagging  his  tail  when  Leonard  spoke,  and 
keeping  sympathetic  step  to  the  invalid's  pace  with 
four  sinewy  black  legs,  which  were  young  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  have  ranged  for  miles  over  the 
heather  hills  and  never  felt  fatigue.  A  true  Dog 
Friend ! 

What  the  Master  of  the  House  pleasantly  called 
"Our  Military  Mania,"  seemed  to  have  reached  its 
climax  during  certain  July  manoeuvres  of  the  regi- 
ments stationed  at  Asholt,  and  of  additional  troops 
who  lay  out  under  canvas  in  the  surrounding  country. 

Into  this  mimic  campaign  Leonard  threw  himself 
heart   and   soul.      His   camp    friends    furnished    him 


92  MILITARY   MANCEUVRES. 

with  early  information  of  the  plans  for  each  day,  so 
far  as  the  generals  of  the  respective  forces  allowed 
them  to  get  wind,  and  with  an  energy  that  defied  his 
disabilities  he  drove  about  after  "  the  armies,"  and 
then  scrambled  on  his  crutches  to  points  of  vantage 
where  the  carriage  could  not  go. 

And  the  Master  of  the  House  went  with  him. 

The  house  itself  seemed  soldier-bewitched.  Order- 
lies were  as  plentiful  as  rooks  among  the  elm-trees. 
The  staff  clattered  in  and  out,  and  had  luncheon  at 
unusual  hours,  and  strewed  the  cedar-wood  hall  with 
swords  and  cocked  hats,  and  made  low  bows  over 
Lady  Jane's  hand,  and  rode  away  among  the  trees. 

These  were  weeks  of  pleasure  and  enthusiasm  for 
Leonard,  and  of  not  less  delight  for  The  Sweep  ;  but 
they  were  followed  by  an  illness. 

That  Leonard  bore  his  sufferings  better  helped  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  they  undoubtedly  increased ; 
and  he  over-fatigued  himself  and  got  a  chill,  and  had 
to  go  to  bed,  and  took  The  Sweep  to  bed  with  him. 

And  it  was  when  he  could  play  at  no  "  soldier- 
game,"  except  that  of  "  being  in  hospital,"  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  blue  dressing-gown  of 
regulation  color  and  pattern,  and  met  with  the  diffi- 
culties aforesaid  in  carr3nng  out  his  whim. 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  Fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form." 

King  John,  Act  iii. 


ONG  years  after 
they  were  written, 
a  bundle  of  letters 
lay  in  the  drawer 
of  a  cabinet  in 
Lady  Jane's    morn- 

/^ll'^^^^Mvl^r^      ing-room,   carefully 
.  '.Jtn  •X    » Lxffiiti^ps:^  ..iii^wnr^      kept,     each    in     its 

own  envelope,  and 
every  e  nvelope 
stamped  with  the 
post-mark  of  Ash- 
olt  Camp. 

They  were  in 
Leonard's  hand- 
writing. A  childish 
hand,  though  good 
for  his  age,  but 
round  and  clear  as 
his  own  speech. 
After  much  coaxing  and  considering,  and  after 
consulting  with  the   doctors,   Leonard   had   been   al- 


C^ 


94  LI^'E   IS   MADE   UP   OF   LITTLE   THINGS. 

lowed  to  visit  the  Barrack  Master  and  his  wife.  After 
his  illness  he  was  taken  to  the  sea-side,  which  he 
liked  so  little  that  he  was  bribed  to  stay  there  by  the 
promise  that,  if  the  Doctor  would  allow  it,  he  should, 
on  his  return,  have  the  desire  of  his  heart,  and  be 
permitted  to  live  for  a  time  "  in  Camp,"  and  sleep  in 
a  hut. 

The  Doctor  gave  leave.  Small  quarters  would 
neither  mar  nor  mend  an  injured  s[^lne;  and  if  he 
felt  the  lack  of  space  and  luxuries  to  which  he  was 
accustomed,  he  would  then  be  content  to  return 
home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  hut  only  boasted  one  spare 
bed-chamber  for  visitors,  and  when  Leonard  and  his 
dog  were  in  it  there  was  not  much  elbow-room.  A 
sort  of  cupboard  was  appropriated  for  the  use  of  Je- 
mima, and  Lady  Jane  drove  constantly  into  Camp  to 
see  her  son.  Meanwhile  he  proved  a  very  good  cor- 
respondent, as  his  letters  will  show  for  themselves. 

LETTER  L 

"  Barrack  Master's  Hut, 
"  The  Camp,  Asholt. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Mother,  — 

''  I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  and  Lather  also.  I 
am  very  happy,  and  so  is  The  Sweep.  He  tried  sleeping  on 
my  bed'  last  night,  but  there  was  not  room,  though  I  gave 
him  as  much  as  ever  I  could.  So  he  slept  on  the  floor.  It 
is  a  camp  bed,  and  folds  up,  if  you  want  it  to.  We  have 
nothing  like  it.     L  belonged  to  a  real  General.     The  (leneral 


LIFE   IS   MADE   UP   OF   LITTLE   THINGS-  95 

is  dead.  Uncle  Henry  bought  it  at  his  sale.  You  always 
have  a  sale  if  you  die,  and  your  brother-officers  buy  your 
things  to  pay  your  debts.  Sometimes  you  get  them  very 
cheap.     I  mean  the  things. 

"  The  drawers  fold  up,  too.  I  mean  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  so  does  the  wash-hand-stand.  It  goes  into  the  comer, 
and  takes  up  very  little  room.  There  could  n't  be  a  bigger 
one,  or  the  door  would  not  open — the  one  that  leads  into 
the  kitchen.  The  other  door  leads  into  a  passage.  I  like 
having  the  kitchen  next  me.  You  can  hear  everything. 
You  can  hear  O'Reilly  come  in  the  morning,  and  I  call  to 
him  to  open  my  door,  and  he  says,  '  Yes,  sir,'  and  opens  it, 
and  lets  The  Sweep  out  for  a  run,  and  takes  my  boots.  And 
you  can  hear  the  tap  of  the  boiler  running  with  your  hot 
water  before  she  brings  it,  and  you  can  smell  the  bacon 
frying  for  breakfast. 

"  Aunt  Adelaide  was  afraid  I  should  not  like  being  woke 
■"jp  so  early,  but  I  do.  I  waked  a  good  many  times.  First 
with  the  gun.  It 's  like  a  \ery  short  thunder,  and  shakes  you. 
And  then  the  bugles  play.  Father  would  like  thon  '  And 
then  right  away  in  the  distance  —  trumpets.  And  the  air 
comes  in  so  fresh  at  the  window.  And  you  pull  up  the 
clothes,  if  they  've  fallen  off  you,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
Mine  had  all  fallen  off,  except  the  sheet,  and  The  Sweep  was 
lying  on  them.  Wasn't  it  clever  of  him  to  have  found  them 
in  the  dark?  If  I  can't  keep  them  on,  I'm  going  to  have 
campaigning  blankets ;  they  are  sewed  up  like  a  bag,  and 
you  get  into  them. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  found  on  my  co\  erlet  when  I  went 
to  bed  ?  A  real,  proper,  blue  •  dressing-gown,  and  a  crimson 
tie  !  It  came  out  of  store,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  made  it 
smaller  herself.     Wasn't  it  kind  of  her? 


96  CHURCH    PARADE. 

"  I  have  got  it  on  now.  Presently  I  am  going  to  dress 
properly,  and  O'Reilly  is  going  to  wheel  me  down  to  the 
stores.  It  will  be  great  fun.  My  cough  has  been  pretty  bad, 
but  it 's  no  worse  than  it  was  at  home. 

"  There  's  a  soldier  come  for  the  letters,  and  they  are 
obliged  to  be  ready. 

''  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  Uncle  Henry  says  his  father  was  very  old-fash- 
ioned, and  he  always  liked  him  to  put  '  Your  dutiful  son,'  so 
I  put  it  to  you. 

"  All  these  crosses  mean  kisses,  Jemima  told  me." 


LETTER  n. 

"...  I  WENT  to  church  yesterday,  though  it  was  only 
Tuesday.  I  need  not  have  gone  unless  I  liked,  but  I  liked. 
There  is  service  every  evening  in  the  Iron  Church,  and  Aunt 
Adelaide  goes,  and  so  do  I,  and  sometimes  Uncle  Henry. 
There  are  not  very  many  people  go,  but  they  behave  very 
well,  what  there  are.  You  can't  tell  what  the  officers  belong 
to  in  the  afternoon,  because  they  are  in  plain  clothes ;  but 
Aunt  Adelaide  thinks  they  were  Royal  Engineers,  except  one 
Commissariat  one,  and  an  A.  D.  C. ,  and  the  Colonel  of  a 
regiment  that  marched  in  last  week.  You  can't  tell  what  the 
ladies  belong  to  unless  you  know  them. 

"  You  can  always  tell  the  men.  Some  were  Barrack  Ser- 
geants, and  some  were  Sappers,  and  there  were  two  Gunners, 
and  an  Army  Hospital  Corps,  and  a  Cavalry  Corporal  who 
came  all  the  way  from  the  barracks,  and  sat  near  the  door, 
and  said  very  long  prayers  to  himself  at  the  end.     And  there 


CHURCH    PARADE.  97 

were  some  schoolmasters,  and  a  man  with  gray  hair  and  no 
uniform,  who  mends  the  roofs  and  teaches  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  I  forget  the  rest.  Most  of  the  choir  are  Sappers 
and  Commissariat  men,  and  the  boys  are  soldiers'  sons.  The 
Sappers  and  Commissariat  belong  to  our  Brigade. 

'■  There  is  no  Sexton  to  our  Church.  He 's  a  Church 
Orderly.  He  has  put  me  a  kind  of  a  back  in  the  corner  of 
one  of  the  Officers'  Seats,  to  make  me  comfortable  in  church, 
and  a  very  high  footstool.  I  mean  to  go  every  day,  and  as 
often  as  I  can  on  Sundays,  without  getting  too  much  tired. 

"  You  can  go  very  often  on  Sunday  mornings  if  you  want 
to.  They  begin  at  eight  o'clock,  and  go  on  till  luncheon. 
There 's  a  fresh  band,  and  a  fresh  chaplain,  and  a  fresh 
sermon,  and  a  fresh  congregation  every  time.  Those  are 
Parade  Services.  The  others  are  Voluntary  Services,  and  I 
thought  that  meant  for  the  Volunteers  ;  but  O'Reilly  laughed, 
and  said,  '  No,  it  only  means  that  there  's  no  occasion  to  go 
to  them  at  all' — he  means  unless  you  like.  But  then  I  do 
like.  There's  no  sermon  on  week  days.  Uncle  Henry  is 
very  glad,  and  so  am  I.  I  think  it  might  make  my  back 
ache. 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear  Mother,  tliat  you  won't  be  able  to 
understand  all  I  write  to  you  from  the  Camp  ;  but  if  you 
■don't,  you  must  ask  me  and  I  '11  explain. 

"  When  I  say  our  quarters,  remember  I  mean  our  hut ; 
and  when  I  say  rations  it  means  bread  and  meat,  and  I  'm 
not  quite  sure  if  it  means  coals  and  candles  as  well.  But  I 
think  I'll  make  you  a  Dictionary  if  I  can  get  a  ruled  book 
from  the  Canteen.  It  would  make  this  letter  too  much  to  go 
for  a  penny  if  I  put  all  the  words  in  I  know.  Cousin  George 
tells  me  them  when  he  comes  in  after  mess.  He  told  me  the 
■Camp  name  for  Iron  Church  is  Tin  Tabernacle ;  but  Aunt 

7 


98  CHURCH    PARADE. 

Adelaide  says  it 's  not,  and  I  'm  not  to  call  it  so,  so  I  don't. 
But  that 's  what  he  says. 

"  I  like  Cousin  George  very  much.  I  like  his  uniform. 
He  is  very  thin,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Uncle  Henry 
is  very  stout,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Last  night 
George  came  in  after  mess,  and  two  other  officers  out  of  his 
regiment  came  too.  And  then  another  officer  came  in. 
And  they  chaffed  Uncle  Henry,  and  Uncle  Henry  doesn't 
mind.  And  the  other  officer  said,  '  Three  times  round  a 
Subaltern  —  once  round  a  Barrack  Master.'  And  so  they  got 
Uncle  Henry's  sword-belt  out  of  his  dressing-room,  and 
George  and  his  friends  stood  back  to  back,  and  held  up  their 
jackets  out  of  the  way,  and  the  other  officer  put  the  belt  right 
round  them,  all  three,  and  told  them  not  to  laugh.  And 
Aunt  Adelaide  said,  '  Oh  !  '  and  '  you  '11  hurt  them.'  And 
he  said,  '  Not  a  bit  of  it.'  And  he  buckled  it.  So  that 
shows.     It  was  great  fun. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  Son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  The  other  officer  is  an  Irish  officer  —  at  least,  I 
think  so,  but  I  can't  be  quite  sure,  because  he  won't  speak 
the  truth.  I  said,  '  You  talk  rather  like  O'Reilly ;  are  you 
an  Irish  soldier  ? '  And  he  said,  '  I  'd  the  misfortune  to  be 
quartered  for  six  months  in  the  County  Cork,  and  it  was  the 
ruin  of  my  French  accent.'  So  I  said,  '  Are  you  a  French- 
man ?  *  and  they  all  laughed,  so  I  don't  know. 

"P.S.  No.  2. —  My  back  has  been  very  bad,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  says  I  have  been  very  good.  This  is  not  meant  for 
swagger,  but  to  let  you  know. 

("  S^uagger  means  boasting.  If  you  're  a  soldier,  swagger 
is  the  next  worst  thing  to  running  away.) 


WHEN   GREEK   MEETS   GREEK,  99 

"  P.S.  No.  3.  —  I  know  another  officer  now.  I  like  him. 
He  is  a  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G.  I  would  let  you  guess  that  if  you 
could  ever  find.it  out,  but  you  couldn't.  It  means  Deputy- 
Assistant- Quarter-Master-General.  He  is  not  so  grand  as 
you  would  think ;  a  plain  General  is  really  grander.  Uncle 
Henry  says  so,  and  he  knows." 

LETTER  HI. 

"...  I  HAVE  seen  V.  C.  I  have  seen  him  twice.  I 
have  seen  his  cross.  The  first  time  was  at  the  Sports.  Aunt 
Adelaide  drove  me  there  in  the  pony  carriage.  We  stopped 
at  the  Enclosure.  The  Enclosure  is  a  rope,  with  a  man 
taking  tickets.  The  Sports  are  inside ;  so  is  the  tent,  with 
tea ;  so  are  the  ladies,  in  awfully  pretty  dresses,  and  the 
officers  walking  round  them. 

'•'There  's  great  fun  outside,  at  least,  I  should  think  so. 
There  's  a  crowd  of  people,  and  booths,  and  a  skeleton  man. 
I  saw  his  picture.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  didn't  want  to,  so  I  tried  to  be  Icetus  without. 

"  When  we  got  to  the  Enclosure  there  was  a  gentleman 
taking  his  ticket,  and  when  he  turned  round  he  was  V.  C. 
Wasn't  it  funny?  So  he  came  back  and  said,  '  Why,  here  's 
ray  little  finend  ! '  And  he  said,  '  You  must  let  me  carry 
you.'  And  so  he  did,  and  put  me  among  the  ladies.  But 
the  ladies  got  him  a  good  deal.  He  went  and  talked  to  lots 
of  them,  but  I  tried  to  be  Icetus  without  him  ;  and  then 
Cousin  George  came,  and  lots  of  others,  and  then  the  V.  C. 
came  back  and  showed  me  things  about  the  Sports. 

"  Sports  are  very  hard  work  :  they  make  you  so  hot  and 
tired ;  but  they  are  very  nice  to  watch.  The  races  were 
great  fun,  particularly  when  they  fell  in  the  water,  and  the 


lOO  THEN   COMES   THE  TUG-OF-WAR. 

men  in  sacks  who  hop,  and  the  blindfolded  men  with  wheel- 
barrows. Oh,  they  were  so  funny  !  They  kept  wheeling 
into  each  other,  all  except  one,  and  he  went  wheeling  and 
wheeling  right  away  up  the  field,  all  by  himself  and  all 
wrong  !     I  did  laugh, 

"  But  what  I  liked  best  were  the  tent-pegging  men,  and 
most  best  of  all,  the  Tug-of-War. 

"  The  Irish  officer  did  tent-pegging.  He  has  the  dearest 
pony  you  ever  saw.  He  is  so  fond  of  it,  and  it  is  so  fond  of 
him.  He  talks  to  it  in  Irish,  and  it  understands  him.  He 
cut  off  the  Turk's  head,  —  not  a  real  Turk,  a  sham  Turk,  and 
not  a  whole  one,  only  the  head  stuck  on  a  pole. 

"  The  Tug-of-War  was  splendid  !  Two  sets  of  men  pulling 
at  a  rope  to  see  which  is  strongest.  They  did  pull !  They 
pulled  so  hard,  both  of  them,  with  all  their  might  and  main, 
that  we  thought  it  must  be  a  drawn  battle.  But  at  last  one 
set  pulled  the  other  over,  and  then  there  was  such  a  noise 
that  my  head  ached  dreadfully,  and  the  Irish  officer  carried 
me  into  the  tent  and  gave  me  some  tea.  And  then  we  went 
home. 

"  The  next  time  I  saw  V.  C.  was  on  Sunday  at  Parade  Ser- 
vice. He  is  on  the  Staff,  and  wears  a  cocked  hat.  He  came 
in  with  the  General  and  the  A.  D.  C. ,  who  was  at  church  on 
Tuesday,  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him. 

"  After  church,  everybody  went  about  saying  '  Good  morn- 
ing,' and  '  How  hot  it  was  in  church  !  '  and  V.  C.  helped  me 
with  my  crutches,  and  showed  me  his  cross.  And  the  Gen- 
eral came  up  and  spoke  to  me,  and  I  saw  his  medals,  and  he 
asked  how  you  were,  and  I  said,  '  Quite  well,  thank  you.' 
And  then  he  talked  to  a  lady  with  some  little  boys  dressed 
like  sailors.  She  said  how  hot  it  was  in  church,  and  he  said, 
'  1  thought  the  roof  was   coming  off  with  that  last  hymn.' 


WHEN   GREEK   MEETS    GREEK,    ETC.  lOI 

And  she  said,  '  My  little  boys  call  it  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  ; 
they  are  very  fond  of  it.'  And  he  said,  'The  men  seem  very 
fond  of  it.'  And  he  turned  round  to  an  officer  I  didn't 
know,  and  said,  '  They  ran  away  from  you  that  last  verse  but 
one.'  And  the  officer  said,  '  Yes,  sir,  they  always  do ;  so  I 
stop  the  organ  and  let  them  have  it  their  own  way.' 

"  I  asked  Aunt  Adelaide,  '  Does  that  officer  play  the 
organ  ? '  And  she  said,  '  Yes,  and  he  trains  the  choir. 
He's  coming  in  to  supper.'  So  became.  If  the  officers 
stay  sermon  on  Sunday  evenings,  they  are  late  for  mess.  So 
the  Chaplain  stops  after  Prayers,  and  anybody  that  likes  to  go 
out  before  sermon  can.  If  they  stay  sermon,  they  go  to 
supper  with  some  of  the  married  officers  instead  of  dining 
at  mess. 

"  So  he  came.  I  liked  him  awfully.  He  plays  like 
Father,  only  I  think  he  can  play  more  difficult  things. 

"  He  says,  '  Tug-of-War  Hymn  '  is  the  very  good  name 
for  that  hymn,  because  the  men  are  so  fond  of  it  they  all  sing, 
and  the  ones  at  the  bottom  of  the  church  '  drag  over '  the 
choir  and  the  organ. 

"  He  said,  '  I  've  talked  till  I  'm  black  in  the  face,  and  all 
to  no  purpose.  It  would  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.'  So  I 
said,  'Are  you  a  saint?'  And  he  laughed  and  said,  'No, 
I'm  afraid  not;  I'm  only  a  kapellmeister.'  So  I  call  him 
'  Kapellmeister.'     I  do  Uke  him. 

"  I  do  like  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn.  It  begins, '  The  Son  .of 
God  goes  forth  to  war.'  That 's  the  one.  But  we  have  it  to 
a  tune  of  our  own,  on  Saints'  Days.  The  verse  the  men  tug 
with  is,  'A  noble  army,  men  and  boys.'  I  think  they  like  it, 
because  it 's  about  the  army  ;  and  so  do  I. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 


I02  A   SOLDIER   SAINT. 

"  P.S.  —  I  call  the  ones  with  cocked  hats  and  feathers, 
'  Cockatoos.'  There  was  another  Cockatoo  who  walked 
away  with  the  General.  Not  very  big.  About  the  bigness  of 
the  stuffed  General  in  that  Pawnbroker's  window ;  and  I  do 
think  he  had  quite  as  many  medals.  I  wanted  to  see  them. 
I  wish  I  had.  He  looked  at  me.  He  had  a  very  gentle 
face  ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  it.     Was  I  a  coward  ? 

"You  remember  what  these  crosses  are,  don't  you?  I 
told  you." 

LETFER   IV. 

"This  is  a  very  short  letter.  It's  only  to  ask  you  to 
send  my  book  of  Poor  Things  by  the  Orderly  who  takes 
this,  unless  you  -are  quite  sure  you  are  coming  to  see  me 
to-day. 

"  A  lot  of  officers  are  collecting  for  me,  and  there  's  one 
in  the  Engineers  can  print  very  well,  so  he  '11  put  them  in. 

"  A  Colonel  with  only  one  arm  dined  here  yesterday. 
You  can't  think  how  well  he  manages,  using  first  his  knife 
and  then  his  fork,  and  talking  so  politely  all  the  time.  He 
has  all  kinds  of  dodges,  so  as  not  to  give  trouble  and  do 
everything  for  himself.     I  mean  to  put  him  in. 

"  I  wrote  to  Cousin  Alan,  and  asked  him  to  collect  for  me. 
I  like  writing  letters,  and  I  do  hke  getting  them.  Uncle 
Henry  says  he  hates  a  lot  of  posts  in  the  day.  I  hate  j^osts 
when  there  's  nothing  for  me.     I  like  all  the  rest. 

"  Cousin  Alan  wrote  back  by  return.  He  says  he  can 
only  think  of  the  old  chap,  whose  legs  were  cut  off  in  battle  ; 

'  And  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
He  fought  upon  his  stumps  ! ' 


A   SOLDIER   SAINT.  IO3 

It  was  very  brave,  if  it 's  true.     Do  you  think  it  is  ?     He 
did  not  tell  me  his  name. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  I  am  IcBtus  sorte  mea,  and  so  is  The  Sweep." 


LETTER   V. 

"  This  letter  is  not  about  a  Poor  Thing.  It 's  about  a 
saint  —  a  soldier  saint  —  which  I  and  the  Chaplain  think 
nearly  the  best  kind.  His  name  was  Martin,  he  got  to  be  a 
Bishop  in  the  end,  but  when  he  first  enlisted  he  was  only  a 
catechumen.  Do  you  know  what  a  catechumen  is,  dear 
Mother  ?  Perhaps  if  you  're  not  quite  so  high-church  as  the 
engineer  I  told  you  of,  who  prints  so  beautifully,  you  may  not 
know.  It  means  when  you  've  been  born  a  heathen,  and  are 
going  to  be  a  Christian,  only  you  've  not  yet  been  baptized. 
The  engineer  has  given  me  a  picture  of  him,  St.  Martin  I 
mean,  and  now  he  has  printed  underneath  it,  in  beautiful  thick 
black  letters  that  you  can  hardly  read  if  you  don't  know 
what  they  are,  and  the  very  particular  words  in  red,  '  Martin 
—  yet  but  a  Catechumen  ! '  He  can  illuminate  too,  though 
not  quite  so  well  as  Father,  he  is  very  high-church,  and  I  'm 
high-church  too,  and  so  is  our  Chaplain,  but  he  is  broad  as 
well.  The  engineer  thinks  he  's  rather  too  broad,  but  Uncle 
Henry  and  Aunt  Adelaide  think  he  's  quite  perfect,  and  so 
do  I,  and  so  does  everybody  else.  He  comes  in  sometimes, 
but  not  very  often  because  he  's  so  busy.  He  came  the  other 
night  because  I  wanted  to  confess.  What  I  wanted  to  con- 
fess was  that  I  had  laughed  in  church.  He  is  a  very  big 
man,  and  he  has  a  very  big  surplice,  with  a  great  lot  of  gathers 


I04  MARTIN  —  YET   BUT   A   CATECHUMEN  I 

behind,  which  makes  my  engineer  very  angry,  because  it 's 
the  wrong  shape,  and  he  preaches  splendidly,  the  Chap- 
lain I  mean,  straight  out  of  his  head,  and  when  all  the  sol- 
diers are  listening  he  swings  his  arms  about,  and  the  surplice 
gets  in  his  way,  and  he  catches  hold  of  it,  and  oh  !  Mother 
dear,  I  must  tell  you  what  it  reminded  me  of.  ^Vhen  I  was 
very  little,  and  Father  used  to  tie  a  knot  in  his  big  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  put  his  first  finger  into  it  to  make  a  head 
that  nodded,  and  wind  the  rest  round  his  hand,  and  stick  out 
his  thumb  and  another  finger  for  arms,  and  do  the  'Yea- 
verily-man '  to  amuse  you  and  me.  It  was  last  Sunday,  and 
a  most  splendid  sermon,  but  his  stole  got  round  under  his 
ear,  and  his  sleeves  did  look  just  like  the  Yea-verily-man, 
and  I  tried  not  to  look,  and  then  I  caught  the  Irish  officer's 
eye  and  he  twinkled,  and  then  I  laughed,  because  I  remem- 
bered his  telling  Aunt  Adelaide  '  That 's  the  grandest  old 
Padre  that  ever  got  up  into  a  pulpit,  but  did  ye  ever  see  a 
man  get  so  mixed  up  with  his  clothes  ? '  I  was  very  sorry 
when  I  laughed,  so  I  settled  I  would  confess,  for  my  engineer 
thinks  you  ought  always  to  confess,  so  when  our  Chaplain 
ca[me  in  after  dinner  on  Monday,  I  confessed,  but  he  only 
laughed,  till  he  broke  down  Aunt  Adelaide's  black  and  gold 
chair.  He  is  too  big  for  it,  really.  Aunt  Adelaide  never 
lets  Uncle  Henry  sit  on  it.  So  he  was  very  sorry,  and  Aunt 
Adelaide  begged  him  not  to  mind,  and  then  in  came  my 
engineer  in  war-paint  (if  you  look  out  war-paint  in  the  Can- 
teen Book  I  gave  you,  you  '11  see  what  it  means).  He  was 
in  war-paint  because  he  was  Orderly  Officer  for  the  evening, 
and  he  'd  got  his  sword  under  one  arm,  and  the  picture 
under  the  other,  and  his  short  cloak  on  to  keep  it  dry,  be- 
cause it  was  raining.  He  made  the  frame  himself;  he  can 
make  Oxford  frames  quite  well,  and  he  's  going  to  teach  me 


MARTIN  —  VET    BUT   A   CATECHUMEN!  105 

how  to.  Then  I  said,  '  Who  is  it  ?  '  so  he  told  me,  and  now 
I  'm  going  to  tell  you,  in  case  you  don't  know.  Well,  St. 
Martin  was  born  in  Hungary,  in  the  year  316.  His  father 
and  mother  were  heathens,  but  when  he  was  about  my  age 
he  made  up  his  mind  he  would  be  a  Christian.  His  father 
and  mother  were  so  afraid  of  his  turning  into  a  monk,  thai;  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough  they  enlisted  him  in  the  army, 
hoping  that  would  cure  him  of  wanting  to  be  a  Christian,  but 
it  did  n't  —  Martin  wanted  to  be  a  Christian  just  as  much  as 
ever ;  still  he  got  interested  with  his  work  and  his  comrades, 
and  he  dawdled  on  only  a  Catechumen,  and  did  n't  make  full 
profession  and  get  baptized.  One  winter  his  corps  was  quar- 
tered at  Amiens,  and  on  a  very  bitter  night,  near  the  gates, 
he  saw  a  half-naked  beggar  shivering  with  the  cold.  (I  asked 
my  engineer,  '  Was  he  Orderly  Officer  for  the  evening? '  but 
he  said,  '  More  likely  on  patrol  duty,  with  some  of  his  com- 
rades.' However,  he  says  he  won't  be  sure,  for  Martin  was 
Tribune,  which  is  very  nearly  a  Colonel,  two  years  afterwards, 
he  knows.)  When  Martin  saw  the  Beggar  at  the  gate,  he 
pulled  out  his  big  military  cloak,  and  drew  his  sword,  and 
cut  it  in  half,  and  wrapped  half  of  it  round  the  poor  Beggar 
to  keep  him  warm.  I  know  you  '11  think  him  very  kind,  but 
wait  a  bit,  that 's  not  all.  Next  night  when  Martin  the  sol- 
dier was  asleep  he  had  a  vision.  Did  you  ever  have  a  vision  ? 
I  wish  I  could  !  This  was  Martin's  vision.  He  saw  Christ 
cur  Lord  in  Heaven,  sitting  among  the  shining  hosts,  and 
wearing  over  one  shoulder  half  a  military  cloak,  and  as  Mar- 
tin saw  Him  he  heard  Him  say,  '  Behold  the  mantle  given  to 
Me  by  Martin  —  yet  but  a  Catechumen  ! '  After  that  vision 
he  did  n't  wait  any  longer  ;  h6  was  baptized  at  once. 

"  Mother  dear,  I  've  told  you  this  quite  truthfully,  but  I 
can't  tell  it  you  so  splendidly  as  my  engineer  did,  standing 


I06  ON   GOD   AND    GODLIKE   MEN 

with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  holding  out  his  cape,  and  draw- 
ing his  sword  to  show  me  how  Martin  divided  his  cloak  with 
the  beggar.  Aunt  /\delaide  is  n't  afraid  of  swords,  she  is  too 
used  to  them,  but  she  says  she  thinks  soldiers  do  things  in 
huts  they  would  never  think  of  doing  in  big  rooms,  just  to 
show  how  neatly  they  can  manage,  without  hurting  anything. 
The  Chaplain  broke  the  chair,  but  then  he  is  n't  exactly  a 
soldier,  and  the  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G.  that  I  told  you  of,  comes  in 
sometimes  and  says,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Jones,  but  I 
must,'  —  and  puts  both  his  hands  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and 
lifts  his  body  till  he  gets  his  legs  sticking  straight  out.  They 
are  very  long  legs,  and  he  and  the  sofa  go  nearly  across  the 
room,  but  he  never  kicks  anything,  it 's  a  kind  of  athletics ; 
and  there  's  another  officer  who  comes  in  at  one  door  and 
Catherine-wheels  right  across  to  the  farthest  corner,  and  he 
is  over  six  foot,  too,  but  they  never  break  anything.  We  do 
laugh. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  engineer  doing  St.  Mar- 
tin. He  had  to  go  directly  afterwards,  and  then  the  Chaplain 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  me,  on  the  hearth-rug,  in  the  fire- 
light, just  where  my  engineer  had  been  standing,  and  he  took 
up  the  picture,  and  looked  at  it.  So  I  said,  '  Do  you  know 
about  St.  Martin  ? '  and  he  said  he  did,  and  he  said,  '  One  of 
the  greatest  of  those  many  Soldiers  of  the  Cross  who  have 
also  fought  under  earthly  banners.'  Then  he  put  down  the 
picture,  and  got  hold  of  his  elbow  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  was 
holding  his  surpHce  out  of  the  way,  and  said,  '  Great,  as  well 
as  good,  for  this  reason  :  he  was  one  of  those  rare  souls  to 
whom  the  counsels  of  God  are  clear,  not  to  the  utmost  of 
the  times  in  which  he  Hved  —  but  in  advance  of  those  times. 
Sudh  men  are  not  always  popular,  nor  even  largely  successful 
in  their  day,  but  the  light  they  hold  lightens  more  generations 


WE   BUILD   OUR   TRUST.  10/ 

of  this  naughty  world,  than  the  pious  tapers  of  commoner 
men.  You  know  that  Martin  the  Catechumen  became  Mar- 
tin the  Saint  —  do  you  know  that  Martin  the  Soldier  became 
Martin  the  Bishop?  —  and  that  in  an  age  of  credulity  and 
fanaticism,  that  man  of  God  discredited  some  relics  very 
popular  with  the  pious  in  his  diocese,  and  proved  and  ex- 
posed them  to  be  those  of  an  executed  robber.  Later  in  life 
it  is  recorded  of  Martin,  Bishop  of  Tours,  that  he  lifted  his 
voice  in  protest  against  persecutions  for  religion,  and  the 
punishment  of  heretics.  In  the  nineteenth  century  we  are 
little  able  to  judge,  how  great  must  ha\e  been  the  faith  of 
that  man  in  the  God  of  truth  and  of  love.'  It  was  like  a 
httle  sermon,  and  I  think  this  is  exactly  how  he  said  it,  for 
I  got  Aunt  Adelaide  to  write  it  out  for  me  this  morning,  and 
she  remembers  sermons  awfully  well.  I  've  been  looking  St. 
Martin  out  in  the  calendar  ;  his  day  is  the  nth  of  November. 
He  is  not  a  Collect,  Epistle,  and  Gospel  Saint,  only  one  of 
the  Black  Letter  ones  ;  but  the  nth  of  November  is  going 
to  be  on  a  Sunday  this  year,  and  I  am  so  glad,  for  I  've  asked 
our  Chaplain  if  we  may  have  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  for  St. 
Martin  —  and  he  has  given  leave. 

"  It 's  a  long  way  off;  I  wish  it  came  sooner.  So  now, 
Mother  dear,  you  have  time  to  make  your  arrangements  as 
you  like,  but  you  see  that  whatever  happens,  /  must  be  in 
Camp  on  St.  Martin's  Day. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


"  I  have  fought  a  good  fight.     I  have  finished  my  course, 
kept  the  faith.     Henceforth  —  !  " 

I  Tim.  iv.  7. 


I  have 


r7ts^/^p 


T  was  Sunday. 
Sunday,    the 
tenth    of   No- 
vember —  St. 
Martin's  Day. 
Though     it 
was    in    No- 
vember,     a 
summer    day, 
'^  A  day  of  that 
Little     Sum- 
mer which  alternately  claims  St.  Luke 
and  St.  Martin  as  its  patrons,  and  is 
apt  to  shine  its  brightest  when  it  can 
claim    both  —  on    the    feast    of   All 
Saints. 

Sunday  in  camp.  With  curious  points  of  likeness 
and  unlikeness  to  English  Sundays  elsewhere.  Like 
in  that  general  aspect  of  tidiness  and  quiet,  of  gravity 
and  pause,  which  betrays  that  a  hard-working  and 
very  practical  people  have  thought  good  to  keep 
much  of  the  Sabbath  \\'ith  its  .Sunda\'.     Like,  too,  in 


SAINT   MARTINS    DAY.  109 

the  little  groups  of  children,  gay  in  Sunday  best,  and 
grave  with  Sunday  books,  trotting  to  Sunday  school. 

Unlike,  in  that  to  see  all  the  men  about  the  place 
washed  and  shaved  is  not,  among  soldiers,  peculiar  to 
Sunday.  Unlike,  also,  in  a  more  festal  feeling  pro- 
duced by  the  gay  gatherings  of  men  and  officers  on 
Church  Parade  (far  distant  be  the  day  when  Parade 
Services  shall  be  abolished!),  and  by  the  exhilarat- 
ing sounds  of  the  Bands  with  which  each  regiment 
marched  from  its  parade-ground  to  the  church. 

Here  and  there  small  detachments  might  be  met 
making  their  way  to  the  Roman  Catholic  church  in 
camp,  or  to  places  of  worship  of  various  denomina- 
tions in  the  neighboring  town ;  and  on  Blind  Baby's 
Parade  (where  he  was  prematurely  crushing  his  Sun- 
day frock  with  his  drum-basket  in  ecstatic  sympathy 
with  the  bands),  a  corporal  of  exceptional  views  was 
parading  himself  and  two  privates  of  the  same  de- 
nomination, before  marching  the  three  of  them  to 
their  own  peculiar  prayer-meeting. 

The  Brigade  for  the  Iron  Church  paraded  early 
(the  sunshine  and  sweet  air  seemed  to  promote  alac- 
rity). And  after  the  men  were  seated  their  officers 
still  lingered  outside,  chatting  with  the  ladies  and  the 
Staff,  as  these  assembled  by  degrees,  and  sunning 
themselves  in  the  genial  warmth  of  St.  Martin's  Little 
Summer. 

The  V.  C.  was  talking  with  the  little  boys  in  sailor 
suits  and  their  mother,  when  the  officer  who  played 
the  organ  came  towards  them. 


no  SAINT  martin's  day. 

"  Good  morning,  Kapellmeister !  "  said  two  or  three 
voices. 

Nicknames  were  common  in  the  camp,  and  this  one 
had  been  rapidly  adopted. 

"  Ye  look  cloudy  this  fine  morning,  Kapellmeister  ! " 
cried  the  Irish  officer.     "  Got  the  toothache?" 

The  Kapellmeister  shook  his  head,  and  forced  a 
smile  which  rather  intensified  than  diminished  the 
gloom  of  a  countenance  which  did  not  naturally  lend 
itself  to  lines  of  levity.  Was  he  not  a  Scotchman  and 
also  a  musician?  His  lips  smiled  in  answer  to  the 
chafi^,  but  his  sombre  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  V.  C. 
They  had  —  as  some  eyes  have  —  an  odd,  summoning 
power,  and  the  V.  C.  went  to  meet  him. 

When-  he  said,  "  I  was  in  there  this  morning,"  the 
V.  C.  's  eyes  followed  the  Kapellmeister's  to  the  Bar- 
rack Master's  hut,  and  his  own  face  fell. 

"  He  wants  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn,"  said  the  Kapell- 
meister. 

"  He  's  not  coming  to  church?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  he 's  set  his  heart  on  hearing  the 
Tug-of-War  Hymn  through  his  bedroom  window; 
and  it  seems  the  Chaplain  has  promised  we  shall  have 
it  to-day.  It's  a  most  amazing  thing,"  added  the 
Kapellmeister,  shooting  out  one  arm  with  a  gesture 
common  to  him  when  oppressed  by  an  idea,  —  "  it's 
a  most  amazing  thing !  For  I  think,  if  I  were  in  my 
grave,  that  hymn  —  as  these  men  bolt  with  it  —  might 
make  me  turn  in  my  place  of  rest ;  but  it 's  the  last 
thing  I    should    care    to    hear   if  I  were    ill  in  bed ! 


ES   GILT   AM   ENDE   DOCH   NUR   VORWARTS !      Ill 

However,  he  wants  it,  poor  lad,  and  he  asked  me  to 
ask  you  if  you  would  turn  outside  when  it  begins,  and 
sing  so  that  he  can  hear  your  voice  and  the  words." 
"  Oh,  he  can  never  hear  me  over  there ! " 
"He  can  hear  you  fast  enough!  It's  quite  close. 
He  begged  me  to  ask  you,  and  I  was  to  say  it's  his 
last  Sunday." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  V.  C.  looked  at  the  little 
"  Officers'  Door,"  which  was  close  to  his  usual  seat, 
which  always  stood  open  in  summer  weather,  and 
half  in  half  out  of  which  men  often  stood  in  the  crush 
of  a  Parade  Service.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  tho 
matter  except  his  own  intense  dislike  to  anything 
approaching  to  display.  Also  he  had  become  more 
attached  than  he  could  have  believed  possible  to  the 
gallant-hearted  child  whose  worship  of  him  had  been 
flattery  as  delicate  as  it  was  sincere.  It  was  no  small 
pain  to  know  that  the  boy  lay  dying — a  pain  he 
would  have  preferred  to  bear  in  silence. 
"Is  he  very  much  set  upon  it?" 
"Absolutely." 

"Is  she  —  is  Lady  Jane  there?" 
"All  of  them.     He  can't  last  the  day  out." 
"When  will  it  be  sung  —  that  hymn,  I  mean?" 
"  I  've  put  it  on  after  the  third  Collect." 
"All  right." 

The  V.  C.  took  up  his  sword  and  went  to  his  seat, 
and  the  Kapellmeister  took  up  his  and  went  to  the 
orean. 


£12  BEYOND   THE   VEIL. 

In  the  Barrack  Master's  Hut  my  hero  lay  dying. 
His  mind  was  now  absolutely  clear,  but  during  the 
night  it  had  wandered  —  wandered  in  a  delirium  that 
was  perhaps  some  solace  of  his  sufferings,  for  he  had 
believed  himself  to  be  a  soldier  on  active  service, 
bearing  the  brunt  of  battle  and  the  pain  of  wounds ; 
and  when  fever  consumed  him,  he  thought  it  was  the 
heat  of  India  that  parched  his  throat  and  scorched  his 
skin,  and  called  again  and  again  in  noble  raving  to 
imaginary  comrades  to  keep  up  heart  and  press 
forward. 

About  four  o'clock  he  sank  into  stupor,  and  the 
Doctor  forced  Lady  Jane  to  go  and  lie  down,  and 
the  Colonel  took  his  wife  away  to  rest  also. 

At  Gun-fire  Leonard  opened  his  eyes.  For  some 
minutes  he  gazed  straight  ahead  of  him,  and  the  Mas- 
ter of  the  House,  who  sat  by  his  bedside,  could  not  be 
sure  whether  he  were  still  delirious  or  no;  but  when 
their  eyes  met  he  saw  that  Leonard's  senses  had  re- 
turned to  him,  and  kissed  the  wan  little  hand  that  was 
feeling  about  for  The  Sweep's  head  in  silence  that  he 
almost  feared  to  break. 

Leonard  broke  in  by  saying,  "  When  did  you  bring 
Uncle  Rupert  to  Camp,  Father  dear?" 

"Uncle  Rupert  is  at  home,  my  darling;  and  you 
are  in  Uncle  Henry's  hut." 

"  I  know  I  am ;  and  so  is  Uncle  Rupert.  He  is  at 
the  end  of  the  room  there.     Can't  you  see  him?" 

"  No,  Len ;  I  only  see  the  wall,  with  your  text  on 
it  that  poor  old  Father  did  for  you." 


BEYOND   THE   VEIL.  II3 

"My  'Goodly  heritage,'  you  mean?  I  can't  see 
that  now.  Uncle  Rupert  is  in  front  of  it.  I  thought 
vou  put  him  there.  Only  he's  out  of  his  frame,  and 
—  it's  very  odd  !  " 

"What's  odd,  my  darling?" 

"  Some  one  has  wiped  away  all  the  tears  from  his 
eyes." 

"  Hymn  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  :  '  Fight  the 
good  fight  of  faith.'  " 

The  third  Collect  was  just  ended,  and  a  prolonged 
and  somewhat  irregular  Amen  was  dying  away  among 
the  Choir,  who  were  beginning  to  feel  for  their  hymn- 
books. 

The  lack  of  precision,  the  "dropping  shots"  style 
in  which  that  Amen  was  delivered,  would  have  been 
more  exasperating  to  the  Kapellmeister,  if  his  own 
attention  had  not  been  for  the  moment  diverted  by 
anxiety  to  know  if  the  V.  C.  remembered  that  the 
time  had  come. 

As  the  Chaplain  gave  out  the  hymn,  the  Kapell- 
meister gave  one  glance  of  an  eye,  as  searching  as 
it  was  sombre,  round  the  corner  of  that  odd  little 
curtain  which  it  is  the  custom  to  hang  behind  an 
organist;  and  this  sufficing  to  tell  him  that  the  V.  C, 
had  not  forgotten,  he  drew  out  certain  very  vocal 
stops,  and  bending  himself  to  manual  and  pedal,  gave 
forth  the  popular  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of-War  "  hymn 
with  a  precision  indicative  of  a  resolution  to  have  it 
sung  in  strict  time,  or  know  the  reason  why. 

8 


114  IF   THOU   BEAR   THY   CROSS 

Ana  as  nine  hundred  and  odd  men  rose  to  their  feet 
with  some  clatter  of  heavy  boots  and  accoutrements 
the  V.  C.  turned  quietly  out  of  the  crowded  church, 
and  stood  outside  upon  the  steps,  bare-headed  in  the 
sunshine  of  St.  Martin's  Little  Summer,  and  with 
the  tiniesi  of  hymn-books  between  his  fingers  and 
thumb. 

Circumstances  had  made  a  soldier  of  the  V.  C. , 
but  by  nature  he  was  a  student.  When  he  brought 
the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes  to  get  a  mental  grasp 
of  the  hymn  before  he  began  to  sing  it,  he  committed 
the  first  four  lines  to  an  intelligence  sufficiently  trained 
to  hold  them  in  remembrance  for  the  brief  time  that 
it  would  take  to  sing  them.  Involuntarily  his  active 
brain  did  more,  and  was  crossed  by  a  critical  sense  of 
the  crude,  barbaric  taste  of  childhood,  and  a  wonder 
what  consolation  the  suffering  boy  could  find  in  these 
gaudy  lines :  — 

"  The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain  ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar  : 
Who  follows  in  His  train  ?  " 

But  when  he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes 
to  take  in  the  next  four  lines,  they  startled  him  with 
the  revulsion  of  a  sudden  sympathy ;  and  lifting  his 
face  towards  the  Barrack  Master's  Hut,  he  sang  —  as 
he  rarely  sang  in  drawing-rooms,  even  words  the  most 
felicitous  to  melodies  the  most  sweet  —  sang  not  only 
to  the  delight  of  dying  ears,  but  so  that  the  Kapell- 
meister himself  heard  him,  and  smiled  as  he  heard  :  — 


IT   WILL   BEAR   THEE.  TI5 

"Who  best  can  drink  His  cup  of  woe 
Triumphant  over  pain, 
Who  patient  bears  His  cross  below, 
He  follows  in  His  train." 


On  each  side  of  Leonard's  bed,  like  guardian  angels, 
knelt  his  father  and  mother.  At  his  feet  lay  The  Sweep, 
who  now  and  then  lifted  a  long,  melancholy  nose  and 
anxious  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  Barrack  Master. 
He  had  taken  up  this  position  at  the  request  of  the 
Master  of  the  House,  who  had  avoided  any  further 
allusion  to  Leonard's  fancy  that  their  Naseby  Ances- 
tor had  come  to  Asholt  Camp,  but  had  begged  his 
big  brother-in-law  to  stand  there  and  blot  out  Uncle 
Rupert's  Ghost  with  his  substantial  body. 

But  whether  Leonard  perceived  the  ruse,  forgot 
Uncle  Rupert,  or  saw  him  all  the  same,  by  no  word 
or  sign  did  he  ever  betray. 

Near  the  window  sat  Aunt  Adelaide,  with  her 
Prayer-book,  following  the  service  in  her  own  orderly 
and  pious  fashion,  sometimes  saying  a  prayer  aloud 
at  Leonard's  bidding,  and  anon  replying  to  his  oft- 
repeated  inquiry :  "  Is  it  the  third  Collect  yet,  Aunty 
dear?" 

She  had  turned  her  head,  more  quickly  than  usual, 
to  speak,  when,  clear  and  strenuous  ^n  vocal  stops, 
came  the  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of-War"  hymn. 

"  There  !  There  it  is  !  Oh,  good  Kapellmeister ! 
Mother  dear,  please  go  to  the  window  and  see  if  V.  C 


Il6  THUS   TO   THE   STARS 

is  there,  and  wave  your  hand  to  him.  Father  dear, 
lift  me  up  a  Httle,  please.  Ah,  now  I  hear  him ! 
Good  V.  C. !  I  don't  believe  you  '11  sing  better  than 
that  when  you  're  promoted  to  be  an  angel.  Are  the 
men  singing  pretty  loud?  May  I  have  a  little  of  that 
stuff  to  keep  me  from  coughing,  Mother  dear?  You 
know  I  am  not  impatient ;  but  I  do  hope,  please  God, 
I  sha'n't  die  till  I  've  just  heard  them  tug  that  verse 
once  more  !  " 

The  sight  of  Lady  Jane  had  distracted  the  V.  C.'s 
thoughts  from  the  hymn.  He  was  singing  mechanic- 
ally, when  he  became  conscious  of  some  increasing 
pressure  and  irregularity  in  the  time.  Then  he  re- 
membered what  it  was.  The  soldiers  were  beginning 
to  tug. 

In  a  moment  more  the  organ  stopped,  and  the'V.  C. 
found  himself,  with  over  three  hundred  men  at  his 
back,  singing  without  accompaniment,  and  in  unison — 

"  A  noble  army  —  men  and  boys, 
The  matron  and  the  maid. 
Around  their  Saviour's  throne  rejoice. 
In  robes  of  white  arrayed." 

The  Kapellmeister  conceded  that  verse  to  the 
shouts  of  the  congregation ;  but  he  invariably  re- 
claimed control  over  the  last. 

Even  now,  as  the  men  paused  to  take  breath  after 
their  "  tug,"  the  organ  spoke  again,  softly,  but  seraph- 
ically,  and  clearer  and  sweeter  above  the  voices  be- 


THUS   TO   THE   STARS!  11/ 

hind  him  rose  the  voice  of  the  V.  C,  singing  to  his 
httle  friend  — 

"  They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  Heaven, 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain  "  — 

The  men  sang  on ;  but  the  V.  C.  stopped,  as  if  he 
had  been  shot.  For  a  man's  hand  had  come  to  the 
Barrack  Master's  window  and  pulled  the  white  bhnd 
down. 


CHAPTER   XII. 


"He  that  hatli  found  some  fledged-bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown."  —  Hotry  Vaug/ia?t. 


RUE  to  its 
character  as 
an  emblem  of 
human  life, 
the  Camp 
stands  on, 
with  all  its 
little  manners 
and  customs, 
whilst  the 
men  who  gar- 
rison it  pass 
rapidly  away. 
Strange  as 
the  vicissi- 
tudes of  a 
whole  gener- 
ation else- 
where, are 
the  changes 
and  chances 
that  a  few 
years  bring  to 


those  who  were  stationed  there  together. 


UNWORLDLY   WISE.  II9 

To  what  unforeseen  celebrity  (or  to  a  dropping  out 
of  one's  life  and  ev^en  hearsay  that  once  seemed  quite 
as  little  likely)  do  one's  old  neighbors  sometimes 
come !  They  seem  to  pass  in  a  few  drill  seasons  as 
other  men  pass  by  lifetimes.  Some  to  foolishness 
and  forgetfulness,  and  some  to  fame.  This  old  ac- 
quaintance to  unexpected  glory;  that  dear  friend  — 
alas  !  —  to  the  grave.  And  some  —  GoD  speed  them  ! 
—  to  the  world's  end  and  back,  following  the  drum 
till  it  leads  them  Home  again,  with  familiar  faces 
little  changed  —  with  boys  and  girls,  perchance,  very 
greatly  changed  —  and  with  hearts  not  changed  at  all. 
Can  the  last  parting  do  much  to  hurt  such  friendships 
between  good  souls,  who  have  so  long  learnt  to  say 
farewell ;  to  love  in  absence,  to  trust  through  silence, 
and  to  have  faith  in  reunion? 

The  Barrack  Master's  appointment  was  an  unusually 
permanent  one  ;  and  he  and  his  wife  lived  on  in  Asholt 
Camp,  and  saw  regiments  come  and  go,  as  O'Reilly 
had  prophesied,  and  threw  out  additional  rooms  and 
bow-windows,  and  took  in  more  garden,  and  kept 
a  cow  on  a  bit  of  Government  grass  beyond  the 
stores,  and — with  the  man  who  did  the  roofs,  the 
church  orderly,  and  one  or  two  other  public  char- 
acters  —  came  to  be  reckoned  among  the  oldest 
inhabitants. 

George  went  away  pretty  soon  with  his  regiment. 
He  was  a  good,  straightforward  young  fellow,  with  a 
dogged  devotion  to  duty,  and  a  certain  provincialism 
of  intellect,  and  general  John  Bullishness,  which  he 


I20  UNWORLDLY   WISE. 

inherited  from  his  father,  who  had  inherited  it  from 
his  country  forefathers.  He  inherited  equally  a 
certain  romantic,  instinctive,  and  immovable  high- 
mindedness,  not  invariably  characteristic  of  much 
more  brilliant  men. 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  his  little  cousin,  and 
Leonard's  death  was  a  natural  grief  to  him.  The 
funeral  tried  his  fortitude,  and  his  detestation  of 
"  scenes,"  to  the  very  uttermost. 

Like  most  young  men  who  had  the  honor  to  know 
her,  George's  devotion  to  his  beautiful  and  gracious 
aunt,  Lady  Jane,  had  had  in  it  something  of  the 
nature  of  worship ;  but  now  he  was  almost  glad  he 
was  going  away,  and  not  likely  to  see  her  face  for  a 
long  time,  because  it  made  him  feel  miserable  to  see 
her,  and  he  objected  to  feeling  miserable  both  on 
principle  and  in  practice.  His  peace  of  mind  was 
assailed,  however,  from  a  wholly  unexpected  quarter, 
and  one  which  pursued  him  even  more  abroad  than 
at  home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  son  had  been  shocked  by  his 
cousin's  death ;  but  the  shock  was  really  and  truly 
greater  when  he  discovered,  by  chance  gossip,  and 
certain  society  indications,  that  the  calamity  which 
left  Lady  Jane  childless  had  made  him  his  Uncle's 
presumptive  heir.  The  almost  physical  disgust  which 
the  discovery  that  he  had  thus  acquired  some  little 
social  prestige  produced  in  this  subaltern  of  a  march- 
ing regiment  must  be  hard  to  comprehend  by  persons 
of  more  imagination  and  less  sturdy  independence, 


GOOD   NEWS   FROM    HOME.  121 

or  by  scholars  in  the  science  of  success.  But  man 
differs  widely  from  man,  and  it  is  true. 

He  had  been  nearly  two  years  in  Canada  when 
"  the  English  mail "  caused  him  to  fling  his  fur  cap 
into  the  air  with  such  demonstrations  of  delight  as 
greatly  aroused  the  curiosity  of  his  comrades,  and, 
as  he  bolted  to  his  quarters  without  further  explana- 
tion than  "  Good  news  from  home  !  "  a  rumor  was  for 
some  time  current  that  "  Jones  had  come  into  his 
fortune." 

Safe  in  his  own  quarters,  he  once  more  applied 
himself  to  his  mother's  letter,  and  picked  up  the 
thread  of  a  passage  which  ran  thus :  — 

"  Your  dear  father  gets  very  impatient,  and  I  long  to  be 
back  in  my  hut  again  and  see  after  my  flowers,  which  I  can 
trust  to  no  one  since  O'Reilly  took  his  discharge.  The  little 
conservatory  is  like  a  new  toy  to  me,  but  it  is  very  tiny,  and 
your  dear  father  is  worse  than  no  use  in  it,  as  he  says  himself. 
However,  I  can't  leave  Lady  Jane  till  she  is  quite  strong. 
The  baby  is  a  noble  little  fellow  and  really  beautiful — which 
I  know  you  won't  believe,  but  that 's  because  you  know  noth- 
ing about  babies  :  not  as  beautiful  as  Leonard,  of  course  — 
that  could  never  be  —  but  a  fine,  healthy,  handsome  boy, 
with  eyes  that  do  remind  one  of  his  darling  brother.  I  know, 
dear  George,  how  greatly  you  always  did  admire  and  appre- 
ciate your  Aunt.  Not  one  bit  too  much,  my  son.  She  is  the 
noblest  woman  I  have  ever  known.  We  have  had  a  very 
happy  time  together,  and  I  pray  it  may  please  God  to  spare 
this  child  to  be  the  comfort  to  her  that  you  are  and  have 
been  to 

"Your  loving  '     Mother." 


122  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  HOME. 

This  was  the  good  news  from  home  that  had  sent 
the  young  subaltern's  fur  cap  into  the  air,  and  that 
now  sent  him  to  his  desk ;  the  last  place  where,  as  a 
rule,  he  enjoyed  himself.  Poor  scribe  as  he  was,  how- 
ever, he  wrote  two  letters  then  and  there :  one  to  his 
mother,  and  one  of  impetuous  congratulations  to  his 
uncle,  full  of  messages  to  Lady  Jane. 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter  more  than 
once.     It  pleased  him. 

In  his  own  way  he  was  quite  as  unworldly  as  his 
nephew,  but  it  was  chiefly  from  a  philosophic  con- 
tempt for  many  things  that  worldly  folk  struggle  for, 
and  a  connoisseurship  in  sources  of  pleasure  not  pur- 
chasable except  by  the  mentally  endowed,  and  not 
even  valuable  to  George,  as  he  knew.  And  he  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  a  somewhat  cynical  student  of 
character. 

After  the  third  reading  he  took  it,  smiling,  to  Lady 
Jane's  morning-room,  where  she  was  sitting,  looking 
rather  pale,  with  her  fine  hair  "coming  down"  over  a 
tea-gown  of  strange  tints  of  her  husband's  choosing, 
and  with  the  new  baby  lying  in  her  lap. 

He  shut  the  door  noiselessly,  took  a  footstool  to  her 
feet,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"You  look  like  a  Romney,  Jane,  —  an  unfinished 
Romney,  for  you  are  too  white.  If  }'ou've  got  a 
headache,  you  sha'n't  hear  this  letter,  which  I  know 
you  'd  like  to  hear." 

"I  see  that  I  should.  Canada  post-marks.  It's 
George." 


MORE    PRECIOUS   THAN   RUBIES.  1 23 

"  Yes ;  it 's  George.  He  's  uproariously  delighted  at 
the  advent  of  this  little  chap." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  he  'd  be  that.  Let  me  hear  what  he 
says." 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter.  Lady 
fane's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  tender  references  to 
Leor.ard,  but  she  smiled  through  them. 

"  He  's  a  dear,  good  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  dear,  good  fellow.  It's  a  most  borne  in- 
tellect, but  excellence  itself  And  I'm  bound  to  say," 
added  the  Master  of  the  House,  driving  his  hands 
through  the  jungle  of  his  hair,  "  that  there  is  a  certain 
excellence  about  a  soldier  when  he  is  a  good  fellow 
that  seems  to  be  a  thing /^rj^." 

After  meditating  on  this  matter  for  some  moments, 
he  sprang  up  and  vigorously  rang  the  bell. 

"Jane,  you  're  terribly  white  ;  you  can  bear  nothing. 
Nurse  is  to  take  that  brat  at  once,  and  I  'm  going  to 
carry  you  into  the  garden." 

Always  much  given  to  the  collection  and  care  of 
precious  things,  and  apt  also  to  change  his  fads  and  to 
pursue  each  with  partiality  for  the  moment,  the 
Master  of  the  House  had,  for  some  time  past,  been 
devoting  all  his  thoughts  and  his  theories  to  the  pres- 
ervation of  a  possession  not  less  valuable  than  the 
paragon  of  Chippendale  chairs,  and  much  more  de- 
structible —  he  was  taking  care  of  his  good  wife. 

Many  family  treasures  are  lost  for  lack  of  a  little 
timely  care  and  cherishing,  and  there  are  living  "  ex- 
amples "  as  rare  as   most  bric-a-brac,   and    quite    as 


124       I    LIST   NO   MORE   THE  TUCK   OF   DRUM. 

perishable.  Lady  Jane  was  one  of  them,  and  after 
Leonard's  death,  with  no  motive  for  keeping  up,  she 
sank  into  a  condition  of  weakness  so  profound  that  it 
became  evident  that,  unless  her  failing  forces  were 
fostered,  she  would  not  long  be  parted  from  her  son. 
Her  husband  had  taken  up  his  poem  again,  to  di- 
vert his  mind  from  his  own  grief;  but  he  left  it 
behind,  and  took  Lady  Jane  abroad. 

Once  roused,  he  brought  to  the  task  of  coaxing  her 
back  to  life  an  intelligence  that  generally  insured  the 
success  of  his  aims,  and  he  succeeded  now.  Lady 
Jane  got  well ;   out  of  sheer  gratitude,  she  said. 

Leonard's  military  friends  do  not  forget  him.  They 
are  accustomed  to  remember  the  absent. 

With  the  death  of  his  little  friend  the  V.  C.  quits 
these  pages.  He  will  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
history. 

The  Kapellmeister  is  a  fine  organist,  and  a  few 
musical  members  of  the  congregation,  of  all  ranks, 
have  a  knack  of  lingering  after  Even-song  at  the  Iron 
Church  to  hear  him  "  play  away  the  people."  But 
on  the  Sunday  after  Leonard's  death  the  congrega- 
tion rose  and  remained  en  masse  as  the  Dead  March 
from  Saul  spoke  in  solemn  and  familiar  tones  the 
requiem  of  a  hero's  soul. 

Blind  Baby's  father  was  a  Presbyterian,  and  disap- 
proved of  organs,  but  he  was  a  fond  parent,  and  his 
blind  child  had  heard  tell  that  the  officer  who  played 
the  organ  so  grandly  was  to  play  the  Dead  March  on 
the  Sabbath  evening  for  the  little  grentleman  that  died 


I    LIST  NO   MORE   THE  TUCK   OF   DRUM.         1 25 

on  the  Sabbath  previous,  and  he  was  wild  to  go  and 
hear  it.  Then  the  service  would  be  past,  and  the 
Kapellmeister  was  a  fellow-Scot,  and  the  house  of 
mourning  has  a  powerful  attraction  for  that  serious 
race,  and  for  one  reason  or  another  Corporal  Mac- 
donald  yielded  to  the  point  of  saying,  "  Aweel,  if 
you  're  a  gude  bairn,  I  '11  tak  ye  to  the  kirk  door, 
and  ye  may  lay  your  lug  at  the  chink,  and  hear  what 
ye  can." 

But  when  they  got  there  the  door  was  open,  and 
Blind  Baby  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  as  if 
the  organ  had  drawn  him  with  a  rope,  straight  to  the 
Kapellmeister's  side. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  much  to  Blind' 
Baby's  advantage,  which  did  not  end  when  the  child 
had  been  sent  to  a  Blind  School,  and  then  to  a  col- 
lege where  he  learnt  to  be  a  tuner,  and  "  earned  his 
own  living." 

Poor  Jemima  fretted  so  bitterly  for  the  loss  of  the 
child  she  had  nursed  with  such  devotion,  that  there 
was  possibly  some  truth  in  O'Reilly's,  rather  compli- 
cated assertion  that  he  married  her  because  he  could 
not  bear  to  see  her  cry. 

He  took  his  discharge,  and  was  installed  by  the 
Master  of  the  House  as  lodge-keeper  at  the  gates 
through  which  he  had  so  often  passed  as  "  a  tidy 
one." 

Freed  from  military  restraints,  he  became  a  very 
untidy  one  indeed,  and  grew  hair  in  such  reckless 
abundance  that  he  came  to  look  like  an  ourang-ou- 


120  WHAT   IS    HOME,   AND    WHERE? 

tang  with  an  unusually  restrained  figure  and  excep- 
tionally upright  carriage. 

He  was  the  best  of  husbands  every  day  in  the  year 
but  the  seventeenth  of  March ;  and  Jemima  enjoyed 
herself  very  much  as  she  boasted  to  the  wives  of  less 
handy  civilians  that  "  her  man  was  as  good  as  a 
woman  about  the  house,  any  day."  (Any  day,  that 
is,  except  the  seventeenth  of  March.) 

With  window-plants  cunningly  and  ornamentally 
enclosed  by  a  miniature  paling  and  gate,  as  if  the  win- 
dow-sill were  a  hut  garden ;  with  colored  tissue-paper 
fly-catchers  made  on  the  principle  of  barrack-room 
Christmas  decorations ;  with  shelves,  brackets,  Oxford 
frames,  and  other  efforts  of  the  decorative  joinery  of 
O'Reilly's  evenings;  with  a  large,  hard  sofa,  chairs, 
elbow-chairs,  and  antimacassars ;  and  with  a  round 
table  in  the  middle  —  the  Lodge  parlor  is  not  a  room 
to  live  in,  but  it  is  almost  bewildering  to  peep  into, 
and  curiously  like  the  shrine  of  some  departed  saint, 
so  highly  framed  are  the  photographs  of  Leonard's 
lovely  face,  and  so  numerous  are  his  relics. 

The  fate  of  Leonard's  dog  may  not  readily  be 
guessed. 

The  gentle  reader  would  not  deem  it  unnatural 
were  I  to  chronicle  that  he  died  of  a  broken  heart. 
Failing  this  excess  of  sensibility,  it  seems  obvious  that 
he  should  have  attached  himself  immovably  to  Lady 
Jane,  arid  have  lived  at  ease  and  died  full  of  dignity  in 
his  little  master's  ancestral  halls.  He  did  go  back 
there  for  a  short  time,  but  the  day  after  the  funeral  he 


—  BUT   WITH   THE    LOVING;  1 27 

disappeared.  When  word  came  to  the  household  that 
he  was  missing  and  had  not  been  seen  since  he  was 
let  out  in  the  morning,  the  butler  put  on  his  hat  and 
hurried  off  with  a  beating  heart  to  Leonard's  grave. 

But  The  Sweep  was  not  there,  dead  or  alive  He 
was  at  that  moment  going  at  a  sling  trot  along  the 
dusty  road  that  led  into  the  Camp.  Timid  persons, 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  dogs,  avoided  him ;  he 
went  so  very  straight,  it  looked  like  hydrophobia ;  men 
who  knew  better,  and  saw  that  he  was  only  "  on  ur- 
gent private  affairs,"  chaffed  him  as  they  passed,  and 
some  with  little  canes  and  horseplay  waylaid  and 
tried  to  intercept  him.  But  he  was  a  big  dog,  and 
made  himself  respected,  and  pursued  his  way. 

His  way  was  to  the  Barrack  Master's  hut. 

The  first  room  he  went  into  was  that  in  which 
Leonard  died.  He  did  not  stay  there  three  minutes. 
Then  he  went  to  Leonard's  own  room,  the  little  one 
next  to  the  kitchen,  and  this  he  examined  exhaust- 
ively, crawling  under  the  bed,  snuffing  at  both  doors, 
and  lifting  his  long  nose  against  hope  to  investigate 
impossible  places,  such  as  the  top  of  the  military 
chest  of  drawers.  Then  he  got  on  to  the  late  Gen- 
eral's camp  bed  and  went  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  smell  of  the  bacon  fry- 
ing for  breakfast,  and  he  had  breakfast  with  the 
family.  After  this  he  went  out,  and  was  seen  by  dif- 
ferent persons  at  various  places  in  the  Camp,  the  Gen- 
eral Parade,  the  Stores,  and  the  Iron  Church,  still 
searching. 


128  WHAT   IS   HOME,    ETC. 

He  was  invited  to  dinner  in  at  least  twenty  different 
barrack-rooms,  but  he  rejected  all  overtures  till  he 
met  O'Reilly,  when  he  turned  round  and  went  back 
to  dine  with  him  and  his  comrades. 

He  searched  Leonard's  room  once  more,  and  not 
finding  him,  he  refused  to  make  his  home  with  the 
Barrack  Master ;  possibly  because  he  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  to  have  a  home  at  all  till  he  could  have 
one  with  Leonard. 

Half-a-dozen  of  Leonard's  ofificer  friends  would 
willingly  have  adopted  him,  but  he  would  not  own 
another  master.  Then  military  dogs  are  apt  to  attach 
themselves  exclusively  either  to  commissioned  or  to 
non-commissioned  soldiers,  and  The  Sweep  cast  in  his 
lot  with  the  men,  and  slept  on  old  coats  in  corners  of 
barrack-rooms,  and  bided  his  time.  Dogs'  masters 
do  get  called  away  suddenly  and  come  back  again. 
The  Sweep  had  his  hopes,  and  did  not  commit  him- 
self. 

Even  if,  at  length,  he  realized  that  Leonard  had 
passed  beyond  this  life's  outposts,  it  roused  in  him 
no  instincts  to  return  to  the  Hall.  With  a  somewhat 
sublime  contempt  for  those  shreds  of  poor  mortality 
laid  to  rest  in  the  family  vault,  he  elected  to  live 
where  his  little  master  had  been  happiest  —  in  Asholt 
Camp. 

Now  and  then  he  became  excited.  It  was  when  a 
fresh  regiment  marched  in.  On  these  occasions  he 
invariably  made  so  exhaustive  an  examination  of  the 
regiment  and  its  baggage,  as  led  to  his  being  more 


KOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE.       I 29 

or  less  forcibly  adopted  by  half-a-dozen  good-natured 
soldiers  who  had  had  to  leave  their  previous  pets 
behind  them.  But  when  he  found  that  Leonard  had 
not  returned  with  that  detachment,  he  shook  ofif  every- 
body and  went  back  to  O'Reilly. 

When  O'Reilly  married,  he  took  The  Sweep  to  the 
Lodge,  who  thereupon  instituted  a  search  about  the 
house  and  grounds ;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
not  expected  any  good  results,  and  when  he  did  not 
find  Leonard  he  went  away  quickly  down  the  old 
Elm  Avenue.  As  he  passed  along  the  dusty  road 
that  led  to  Camp  for  the  last  time,  he  looked  back 
now  and  again  with  sad  eyes  to  see  if  O'Reilly  was  not 
coming  too.  Then  he  returned  to  the  Barrack  Room, 
where  he  was  greeted  with  uproarious  welcome,  and 
eventually  presented  with  a  new  collar  by  subscrip- 
tion. And  so,  rising  with  gun-fire  and  resting  with 
"lights  out,"  he  lived  and  died  a  soldier's  Dog. 

The  new  heir  thrives  at  the  Hall.  He  has  brothers 
and  sisters  to  complete  the  natural  happiness  of  his 
home,  he  has  good  health,  good  parents,  and  is  having 
a  good  education.  He  will  have  a  goodly  heritage. 
He  is  developing  nearly  as  vigorous  a  fancy  for  sol- 
diers as  Leonard  had,  and  drills  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters with  the  help  of  O'Reilly.  If  he  wishes  to  make 
arms  his  profession  he  will  not  be  thwarted,  for  the 
Master  of  the  House  has  decided  that  it  is  in  many 
respects  a  desirable  and  wholesome  career  for  an  eldest 
son.     Lady  Jane  may  yet  have  to  buckle  on  a  hero's 

9 


130  NOT   LOST,    BUT   GONE   BEFORE. 

sword.  Brought  up  by  such  a  mother  in  the  fear  of 
God,  he  ought  to  be  good,  he  may  hve  to  be  great, 
it's  odds  if  he  cannot  be  happy.  But  never,  not  in 
the  "  one  crowded  hour  of  glorious  "  victory,  not  in 
years  of  the  softest  comforts  of  a  peaceful  home,  by 
no  virtues  and  in  no  success  shall  he  bear  more  fitly 
than  his  crippled  brother  bore  the  ancient  motto 
of  their  house : 

"  3LKtu0  Sorte  i^ea." 


THE    END. 


MRS.  EWINO'S   G-IEL-BOOK. 


SIX   TO    SIXTEEN.     A  Story  for  Girls.      By  Mrs. 
EwiNG.     Price  Ji.oo. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston. 


MRS.    EWING-^S     STORIES. 


/7.)aStLxsa)\y> 


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"  What's  your  name,  boy  ? "  —  Page  247, 

JAN    OF    THE    WINDMILL. 

A     STORY     OF     THE     PLAINS. 

By  Mrs.  Ewing.     Price,  $1.00. 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS.  Publishers, 

BOSTON 


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MRS.  EWING'S  POPULAR  TALES 


New  uniform  library  edition.     Illustrated. 

JAN   OF  THE  WINDMILL. 

With  Illustrations  by  Mrs.  Allingham. 
"  A  delightful  story  for  children  and  other 
people. "  —  A  cademy. 


With  Illustrations  by  W.  L.  Jones. 
WE  AND  THE  WORLD.     A 
Story  for  Boys. 

"A  very  good  story,  full  of  adventures 
graphically  told.  .  .  .  Like  all  Mrs.  E wing's 
tales,  it  is  sound,  sensible,  and  wholesonie." 
—  Times. 

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With  Illustration. 
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AND  OTHER  TALES. 
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more  charming  volume  of  stones,  and  that 
is  saying  a  very  great  deal."  —  Academy. 

• 

With  Illustrations  bv  Caldecott. 

JACKANAPES,  Daddy  Dacr- 
win's  Dovecot,  and  "  The 
Story  of  a  Short  Life,"  with 
Memoir  of  Mrs.  Ewing  by  hei 
sister,  Mrs.  Gatty,  and  Portrait. 

— *~~ 
With  Illustrations  by  Browne. 

MELCHIOR'S     DREAM, 

Brothers  of  Pity,  and  othir 

Tales. 


9  vols.    i6mo.    Cloth.    Price,  fi.oo  each. 

SIX  TO  SIXTEEN.    A  Story 
FOR  Girls. 

With  Illuetrations  by  Helen  Patterson. 
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I   MRS.       OVERTHEWAYS 
!       REMEMBRANCES. 

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LOB    LIE -BY- THE -FIRE, 
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A      FLATIRON       FOR      A 

FARTHING;  or,  Some  Pas- 

{       sages  in  the  Life  of  an  Q^.Iy 

I       Son. 

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Printed  in  Colors,  with  Ilhiminated  Covers. 

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Pnce,  35  cents. 

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By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Ewing.     With  Illustrations  by  Randolpji  Caldecott.     i6mo.     Paper 
board  covers.     Price,  25  cents. 

JLaetus   Sorts   Mea. 
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